Nature Boy
by Quibily
Summary: AU adaptation of Jane Austen's "Persuasion."  Six years ago, luckless stage actress Rachel Berry made a choice.  She chose career over a whirlwind romance.  Now, the boy she rejected is back, and she realizes that the whirlwind has only just begun.
1. There was a boy

**Summary: **AU adaptation of Jane Austen's "Persuasion." Six years ago, luckless stage actress Rachel Berry made a choice. She chose career over a whirlwind romance. Now, the boy she rejected, Captain Finn Hudson, is back-and she realizes that the whirlwind has only just begun.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>An abundance of gratitude goes to mah Marzipan ( username: carmenmauri)! Who came to me with the glorious idea of a Finchel version of Jane Austen's wonderful novel Persuasion-and has also been a great beta, helping me along in this journey! The title of the story is after one of my favorite songs ever "Nature Boy," and it has been covered by countless artists since the '40s. My favorite cover, however, is by My Brightest Diamond. It is sung by a woman, and I like to imagine it being Rachel, singing of the "magic day" she came across her "nature boy" again and all that she taught him.

Please do enjoy my very first AU fic ever!

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><p>I'm late, and I never run late!<p>

That is, I never ran late until I was thrown in with my current flock of airheaded roommates. I guess it's not their fault because three girls (and a boyfriend who _never leaves_) sharing a single bathroom is a terrible idea, in the first place.

I should have known better, but I was desperate. I was 21, freshly graduated from New York University, proudly wielding my degree in Theatre—and no one I auditioned for really caring.

And I was massively in debt—still am. Even more in debt because I took a two week seminar and got an expensive photoshoot done—which I only learned later was a total rip-off and didn't tell me I was selling my soul for a year-long program. The so-called "agent" I got was no help whatsoever, and I cut myself off from that program as soon as I could, feeling like a fool.

I had no job yet, and I could not afford a better living arrangement.

Still can't. Three years later.

I am 24 years old, and ten years ago, I thought I was going to be someone by now. In those days, I did not hesitate to inform everyone of this. It cost me friendships for years, my self-assertion, but I was determined.

Once upon a time, a pair of soft eyes would glisten as they were locked with mine. His mouth would tell me what his heart and his brain felt: I was going to make it. With such ease, he would say it again and again. We just knew it all—like the teenagers we were.

We were freely ourselves together. Unrestrained, easy embraces. Wide, bright eyes. Open, yearning mouths. Warm, sweet breath. The excitement.

The hopes.

"Are you about done? All I need is to brush my teeth! I'm going to be late, as it is!" I shout my plea as I bang on the bathroom door.

My fist goes up for another swat at the door, but I stop it just in time as I see that Brittany has opened the door. I start, stare, then rush into the room and brush vigorously, trying not to get any toothpaste on my outfit. Then I flounce out of there, unable to resist as I call back to my roommate:

"I told you yesterday that I needed the bathroom earlier than usual because of my audition, and you said you'd make it work!"

"Alarm clocks confuse me. I mean, which is a.m. and p.m.? They're the same numbers …" Brittany says as she disappears into the bathroom.

I take a moment to very slowly and emphatically roll my eyes. She is the newest roommate, and she is not helping the chaotic situation of so many people sharing an apartment.

"Good luck!" I hear my other roommate Tina shout to me over her coffee—as her boyfriend next to her, Artie, winces at the loud sound, still half-asleep.

Tina presents another tangle in the difficult web of my life. She has Artie over nights and nights in a row. Though, it's not really his fault. Our old, crappy apartment building has no wheelchair access at the entrance, so he stays long periods, and when he leaves, he waits until Brittany comes home because she's the only girl strong enough to help him and his wheelchair down the stairs.

I swear Artie used my toothbrush when he was drunk one night, but of course, no one believes me—

But I'm running late and should really stop my complaining. What would Barbra say at my shameful pessimism?

(She'd be grossed out if she woke up to a toothbrush which reeked of whiskey, too, honestly, but that's not the point … Optimism is so difficult when you're poor!)

I'm _not_ late. I make the subway on time, and I smile at my watch as I realize that I will, in fact, arrive ten to fifteen minutes before my audition.

I am auditioning for a lead role in my off-Broadway theatre company's first original production. It is a war musical, and there are only two female roles, but I have a good feeling about this. The director, Will, put me in leads my first year with the company. Then he disappeared, and he's now back.

Yes, things are looking up for Rachel Barbra Berry.

As I exit the subway station, my phone gets its signal back, and I feel it buzz in my purse. I take it out. It a text from Santana.

"Won't have to fuck the director for this part! In the bag! But good luck, anyway, Berry. -San"

I can't help but smile even though I want to cringe. And to punish her for her crudeness, I type back:

"If it's a female director, I might!"

She's fast in her response: "Don't you dare! You ditch men I need to be the 1st to know Babs!"

I arrive at the theatre where my audition is, and I take a moment to lean against a wall in a corner and giggle at the message.

We have an odd relation, Santana and I. We met in the dormitories of NYU. She was a loud and proud lesbian, scarily intelligent and insensitive (I should have known she'd be a lawyer!) who lived in my otherwise quiet and concerned dormitory wing. She turned my world upside down with her fluid—and fluent—sexuality, her bluntness and fearlessness in The Forbidden Topics (politics, religion, you name it). She made any party interesting.

And she had a crush on me. Or, more accurately speaking, she had the_ hots_ for me.

Her flirtations were flattering, I'll admit. She spent weeks trying to convince me to experiment with her—even to give up on men altogether (as none of them were working out). Even though she gave up on this silly endeavor, she has never dropped the subject since. It's our awful, tasteless inside joke that, sometimes, keeps me going through my gray days.

As I sit down in the theatre's lobby, I see Mercedes Jones, a perpetual chorus girl, smiling at me in surprise at my jovial outburst. I must have quite a goofy grin on my face to get a smile from her. She is generally quite stoic—and passive, very passive. She is agreeable to everyone—even to myself, the most unpopular member of the company.

(Looking back on three wasted years of alienating myself, expecting my move to Broadway to come at any minute, I almost envy her now—but that's a different story.)

"What's so funny?" I hear Quinn Fabray, my main competition, sitting in a seat next to Mercedes, ask.

Quinn Fabray is everything you don't want in competition. Not to say I don't see the advantages of healthy competition, but that bright and shiny view of my career diminished when I became poor and in need of a part so that I may afford my next cell phone bill.

She's blonde, with a perfect-shaped face and large, perfect eyes. Her singing voice, though a bit too stylized and lacking emotion for my taste, rivals my own perfect pitch and wide range.

And what's worse, she has a story! One of those great stories every aspiring star wants. Tragedy struck her as a teenager when she was accidentally punched in the nose, and her voice became nasil and soft. However, she refused to accept her devastated situation and went to vocal therapists and hired a vocal coach who specialized in deviated septums.

Then, according to her story, she worked hard and practiced every day, and her pre-punch voice came back!

Isn't that devastatingly dramatic and altogether perfect? I honestly wish I had been punched for the solid _gold_ drama of it all. What a story to tell! The golden yarn to raise yourself above the status of actress/singer to _role model_, garnering fans all across the city and the nation. Imagine the Tony speech! The tears of triumph! The sympathetic reporters!

Though, if you ask me, I don't think that's how it happened at all. I know my vocal technique and science, and one cannot _practice_ one's way out of a deviated septum. One gets _corrective surgery_, and I think that is exactly what she did. Daddy got a raise, and she batted her gorgeous eyes—and that was that.

Oh, she is expecting me to reply, sitting regally in one of the lobby chairs.

"Funny text," I answer and sit down in my chair, smoothing my navy skirt.

"Hey, you know who's here?" Quinn continues.

I tilt my head at her, confused. She's never this chatty.

"Captain Finn Hudson!"

I gasp then cough, choking on my own spit.

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"_The _Finn Hudson! The army guy who was in New York Times like _four _times! Yeah!" Mercedes chimes in.

I bite back my tongue from making a comment that I am mostly clueless to topical events because I can't afford a newspaper or the internet—and my roommates have our television constantly tuned on the current popular reality series.

"Refresh my memory …. What's he known for … again?"

This couldn't be the same Finn.

It just couldn't.

"He's a war hero," Quinn tells me as Mercedes is called in for her audition. "He saved a bunch of people in Afghanistan, and, well, I don't really remember the details, but he's really important and really hot."

But how many _Finn _Hudsons are there? Who am I kidding?

"Still not computing? Do you really need more than War Hero? Okay, well, he's got medals, and now he's an activist for Post-Stress Disorder treatment, promoting music as a form of healing for vets who suffer from it. But all that _pales _in comparison to the fact that he is successful, hot, and has money. And he'll be watching the auditions!" Then she laughed, "He's mine, and he doesn't even know it. The Things They Carried is his favorite novel, and he's the reason Will chose to do a musical based on it."

My jaw is slack. In fact, it may have ceased functioning. _In fact_, the pit of my stomach feels like it is churning with acid due to Quinn's last statement. I also feel the sting of tears, and I just don't want to be here anymore—audition be damned.

It's him. It's Finn. _My _Finn.

Quinn is called into her audition, and my jaw is still slack.

In Kurt's last email—six months ago—he told me that Finn was coming home "to great fanfare." I honestly thought he meant to be dramatic. Maybe there _was_ a great fanfare.

_A fanfare for a hero._

Kurt was the closest thing I had to a platonic friend in high school. We exchanged email addresses before I moved to New York and he to Stanford in California. A few days after, I broke his step-brother's heart.

I didn't think he would truly email me. Not after what I had done. So I cried for the lost love and the only other friend I had in the world.

But he did email me. It was mostly awkward, what with Finn being a big part of his life and a painful, gaping wound in mine—but we carried on. When it wasn't hard, it was wonderful.

But the emails got less frequent when Kurt graduated from college. He got busy. He got important, just like I knew he would.

For a year, our correspondence was stagnant. Not a single email from the end of the summer he graduated to the end of the next summer.

Then, out of nowhere, Kurt emailed me this news (among other news that he may go to New York City to visit, that he is thinking about graduate school, and perhaps we could have a reunion lunch). And right in the middle of the public library's computer lab, I wept from joy that Finn had finished his service and was home safe. I tried to convince myself that was the only reason Kurt informed me of this. I tried not to wonder. Not to hope.

I am now jerked out of my reverie as Quinn prances out of the auditorium and gives me a semblance of a nod to notify me that it is my turn.

Oh, God, I can't do this.

But something in Quinn's face re-ignites the spark. Her face is a challenge. She is _daring_ me to go home crying—the leading female role already lost to me.

I puff air from my nose and straighten my shoulders. Like hell will I give up this opportunity!

Whether it's a heart attack or heartbreak, just like Broadway, the show must go on.


	2. A magic day

I met my mother when I was sixteen. Until that summer, I had been raised by my dads and kept in the dark about my mother. I dreamed often of bumping into her one day. Was she still in Lima? Was she perhaps a stage or recording star who could help me along my way?

When I was mad at my ever-absent fathers (paying for every type of lesson I needed, speaking every word of encouragement in the dictionary, but never attending performances because they were always working), I used to threaten to run away and find my mother. Maybe she would go to my show choir performances—ease the pain of my loneliness.

But then she came to _me!_ She was the director of my school's rival show choir, Vocal Adrenaline. For years, she told me, she had been living less than an hour from me, and she couldn't summon the courage to meet me.

But then she did. I _came home to her. _Literally.

When I returned home from performing arts camp in the July before my Senior year of high school, she was there, having decaf green tea with my dads. She was so pretty. Her hair a glossy black, so glossy, it almost looked wet—and her eyes and brow so similar to mine.

They invited me to sit down and talk, and since then, Shelby—that's her name, my mother—became part of my life. She told me about how she lived in New York, and she helped me form my plan. She was someone I felt comfortable with talking about my girl matters, finally.

My eyes glossed over in admiration at everything she said—and, boy, could she sing!

I went to her about Finn when I first met him that fall—when I was completely, hopelessly smitten with the most popular boy at school. With a giggle, she told me to lighten up and "If he likes you, that's great! Have fun with that! If not, the less you have to worry about in your transition to New York."

But then I only fell deeper as the school year went on—as he became less and less afraid to be seen with me in front of his football team peers.

Maybe it started when I realized I wasn't getting slushied anymore. Maybe it was when he picked me out a pink bowling ball, knowing it was my favorite color, or when his fingers grazed over my own in the dark of our bus ride home from Regionals, or perhaps when the majority of our conversations turned into eyebrow waggles, pokes, and fervent kisses. All I know is, somewhere along the way, our relationship ran away from me and hid into a corner of Finn's letterman jacket—where it smelled of warmth and hair gel and safety and Sour Patch Kids and _Finn_.

Then I gave myself to him in May. I was past the point of no return. In fact, we both were. That was the night Finn said he wanted to follow me to New York.

I spoke with Mom about this, and she gave a compelling argument.

"Oh, sweetie," she said, gently, "It sounds like he doesn't really know what he wants in his own future. You do. This is a dangerous combination. Rachel, you're too young to unconditionally attach yourself to someone. He is, too. You both need to focus on yourselves, at this age. Trust me, sweetie, you'll be glad later. Relationships fade, but the lights of Broadway never go out."

And now my heart is crawling and clawing its way down my chest cavity, trying to hide. But instead of hiding, it is incinerated, for the pit of my stomach burns as I see him in the auditorium. Despite it all, I walk closer. Obeying Will's request that I come sit with them in the audience of the auditorium for a moment, I walk down from the stage.

My judges at today's audition are Finn, who is staring very directly at me, Will, and a man with a Mohawk I am ashamed to say I recognize.

His name is Noah Puckerman, nicknamed "Puck," and he had a moderately popular rock band a few years ago, but, after two hits in the Top 40 chart, his career went downhill. I would not be surprised if "Puck" has hit rehab once or twice since then. He composed this musical in hopes of regaining an actual career.

And I have to say that I frankly do not like him. His lecherous looks are appallingly unprofessional, and his Jewish pick-up lines are stale, at best. (Will introduced us last week at a bar—and I cannot help but wonder if he thought he was being a clever matchmaker, bringing two singing and dancing Jews together, or something…)

Will makes sure we all know one another (and I fake not knowing Finn; he does the same), then regales me with his story of how he met Puck when he was working at a recording studio, and he met Finn at a music therapy convention (they have those?). He proudly concludes that he introduced the two at Asco, a chic Latino bar in Manhattan. "And the rest, as they say, is history," he concludes, and I am strangely comforted by being reminded of exactly how cheesy and harmless Will is.

So I smile a ghost of a smile, and I see, out of the corner of my eye, that Finn notices. He is also smiling a little. Fighting off a blush, I ask Will, politely, to move onto the point of his calling me down. He clears his throat and begins:

"Now, as you know, this musical is based on a war novel, so that means that the female roles, outside of the chorus, removed from all the action, are extremely limited, so we're giving each woman auditioning a little talk about each role," Will preambles.

"I've read the script—" I segue.

"It's rough," Puck interrupts. I glare.

"As I was saying, _I read the script_, and I understand that Martha is a speaking lead who doubles in the chorus, and Mary Anne is the singing lead," I recite emphatically. It is always good to let the director know you know your material.

"Well," Puck says, leaning over in his seat, spreading his legs out a little more, "I'm thinking that Martha is that sexy tease you can just never get a hold of. That Jimmy and your average dudes can't get a hold of, that is—and Mary Anne's—well, she has this badass rock anthem about going batshit crazy with lots of discordant parts, and it's just gonna be awesome."

Finn looks like he wants to speak. Will sees this.

"Finn, what are you thinking?"

"Well, Martha's just America. Clueless civilians who have no idea what it's like in battle. They'll admire you and write these nice letters, but they don't wanna get too close to you. Like you're diseased. Which, being surrounded by death, like you are in war, you kinda are. In a place where lots of people get killed, you could get killed, too. But it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. When a girl gives up on you like that. Makes you feel abandoned."

His gaze is fixed on mine as he says this. My whole body shudders in an attempt to shake off this dirty feeling I have all over. _Abandoned._ That one word resonates and chases away the brightness from my eyes, and I am fighting tears.

I stand straight up just then, because I just cannot stand still anymore, and Will claps, hailing me for being such a firecracker, ready to go.

I am ready to go, but not the way Will means it.

However, I stand my ground. I hand the pianist, Brad, my sheet music.

The accompaniment begins, and I wait measure after measure for my entrance. It's only four measures, but they feel like much longer. And my throat feels dry, my eyes wet, and my heart is still falling, falling, falling, deeper into my stomach and Oh God.

I miss my queue.

I never miss my queue.

I scramble to catch up with the accompaniment, trying to hide my immense shame. Suddenly, I feel Finn's widened eyes with his burning gaze on me, and it's all I can think about. And that word _abandoned. _And I remember his face when he came to my door the night after I broke it off with him. His tense jaw, and his wet eyes.

Then I forget a lyric.

I _don't _forget lyrics.

Don't panic. Do. Not. Panic.

I soldier on, and I shake, and I grit my teeth to cap the phrase, trying to make it look like it's on purpose, as my note undulates and thrives as a strong low hum. I can almost hear the plea of mercy underneath it all. The vulnerability beneath the strong natural timbre of my voice.

This song I chose is about triumph and relief. I am feeling neither of those. I needed a let-me-just-die song to try-out with. This is all wrong. I can't look in pain during this number.

As I conclude the song, I look at Will's forced-neutral expression, and I know he's decided on Quinn for the vocal lead over me. I turn to Brad to thank him. Then I turn to my three trial members, expecting my life sentence of obscurity here and now.

"Thank you, Rachel," Will says politely.

Finn nods.

I begin to leave, but Puck calls after me.

"You, uh, might have forgotten something?"

I turn to find Puck, on the top step of the stairs from the audience aisle to the stage, is holding my phone up!

I march over and snatch the phone from his hands, "_How did you get that?"_ I demand.

"More importantly, what did you gain from it?" He says as he winks. "P-U-C-K. Of course, if you go to contacts and type a P, I should come right up. See ya."

Were I not in emotional stress—what with my past coming back to haunt me and all that—I swear I would have kicked him in the rear for his awful behavior. But, this time, I disappear behind the curtain, eyeing the backstage exit. I push the large, metal door open, and the door makes such a racket, I pause to grimace.

Then I see that I still have my cell phone in my left hand, and I let the door shut again, with me still backstage, and begin to put it in the pouch of my purse. Then I hear Finn say something:

"I forgot to talk about Mary Anne. She—she's Vietnam. She's savage and awful—but also beautiful and delicate. She's just _everything_. And it's too much, and it just makes her crazy. She _breaks_, you know. She forgets things, and her thoughts are all jumbled up because she's totally vulnerable. And that's—that's important to the role."

I start. Is he speaking for me, in retrospect of my unstable performance just now? He couldn't be… He doesn't owe me anything. I owe him a world of apologies and respect.

Suddenly, I realize they think I've left because of the loud clank the door made!

I panic, unsure of what to do. I have to open the door eventually. If I do it, now, they will know I was listening. If I do it while someone else is auditioning, that would look awful. Besides, Mercedes is next, and she is the only cast member who is nice to me. I couldn't do that to her.

So, I squeeze my eyes shut, count to three, and I open that horrendously loud door, dash out, and I don't look anywhere but ahead of me until I'm home.

When I get home, I barricade myself in my room when I see that all my roommates are in the living room/kitchen space. Tina and Artie are making out on the couch, and Brittany is eating Ramen noodles on the floor and very loudly commenting on some inane reality show she is watching.

"No, but seriously, why does Tyra talk about smiling with your eyes … Your eyes don't have teeth…"

I then text Santana who promises a rescue in the form of a night out as soon as she leaves the office. I get up, change into proper attire for going out, and then I flop on the bed and wait.

I lie there, staring at my ceiling, and sink into my bed, remembering. I remember the last time I wasn't in bed alone. It was six years ago.

I remember the freckles on his shoulders I kissed in post-coital bliss. The smile in his eyes that no model could ever duplicate. The way he said he loved me before, during, and after.

Then he said it.

"I wanna follow you to New York," Finn declared after a long silence, looking down from the strand of hair on my head he had been playing with.

"You mean, you applied to colleges there?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

"Uh, no. I was thinking I could figure it out when I get there. Probably work for a while and apply to some colleges for next year. I just know that … you and me, Rachel, what we have is _real_."

"Finn, you can't throw your life away for me," I pleaded gingerly.

"I'm not. I'm actually _choosing_ a life," he insisted, his eyes eager.

"Finn, if you end up working, you'll get caught up in it; it'll be harder to leave. You'll probably get too busy and forget about or miss the deadlines."

"So you don't want me?" Finn asked.

"Finn, that's not it. We're so young. It's not—" I said haltingly.

"You mean, at the end of the summer, you're ready to pick up and leave? Like this past year—this summer—never happened?"

I pulled myself closer to his chest and hide half my face in it.

"I don't know, Finn—I …"

"Just think about it," Finn said, kissing my head. And, suddenly, I didn't feel like we were teenagers anymore. The way he kissed the top of my head; the way my house remained undisturbed by my workaholic dads; the way he held me as if he had been doing it forever. It felt like we could have been adults in our bedroom, sharing a life. And it could be so easy because it could feel so right.

"All right," I whispered against his hot skin. "I'll think about it."

Thrown out of my daydreaming, I hear Santana's muffled holler, "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLE!"

I pop out of bed and my memories and find that Santana isn't in the living room. Brittany, still on the floor in front of the television, points to the door.

That girl didn't even knock! Presumptuous lawyer that she is!

I open the door, and Santana immediately throws herself at me in a hug.

"Those men are dicks and suck if they don't see that you deserve that lead." Then she stands back, looks me up and down, and wags both her fingers. "Hold up. We're not going to a tea party, Berry. Go change into something more sexy, now! I'm buying us dinner, then we're going bar-hopping."

"But I like this dress!"

"But I also know that you have a pair of very, very, _very_ tight black pants 'cause I bought you those. You are wearing those, and you are jiggling your jelly and getting men to buy you drinks. We'll bleed a few dicks dry tonight, so get going!"

Ah, Santana. Always looking out for me.

As I begin to hustle toward my room, hoping I didn't throw those pants she bought me away, I see Brittany stand up. She begins to smile at Santana, and I hear Santana say, "Hey, gorgeous. What's your name?"

"Santana! She's my roommate! Be good!" I warn my borderline-predatory lesbian friend. She flirts with all my cast members, and it freaks them out. I can never take her _anywhere._

"Aren't I always?" Santana chirps at my back.

"B-britney Spears… I mean, Brittany S. Pierce," comes Brittany's quiet reply as I shut the door to change in my room.

After dinner, I _don't _get any men to buy me a drink; Santana actually gets a man to buy me a Hurricane and a gin and tonic for her.

Honestly, I don't even try. I do karaoke most of the night, sip my Hurricane, then buy myself a rum and Pepsi. I am intoxicated enough, at one point, that I cuddle Santana-when she's not busy misleading men to get a free drink.

But, by 3 a.m., my buzz is gone, and she is completely trashed. So I sip a water and watch as she prances coquettishly around the bar.

With an absurd amount of sexual allure, I watch-and study-her leaning against the bar and letting her butt wiggle a bit till she gets her drink-then she makes the Big Reveal once she has the drink securely in her hands. Eventually, she gets _so_ drunk that she doesn't even wait for the drink. She blurts in their faces, as they begin to stutter their offer, "NOT ON YOUR TEAM, LOSER! HAR-FUCKIN'-HAR. I AM _AWESOME_."

At which point, she is so drunk that she gets hysterically weepy.

At which point, I hail a taxi and take her home. I manage to get her to stop crying. During the ride, we harmonize "Out Tonight" from RENT, and I'm reminded of why she's my closest friend. She is excellent in everything she does—including singing. Dancing, too. In fact, most of her artistic endeavors result in excellence.

But instead, she dedicates that brilliant mind to being a lawyer. She loves to have her money—and piss people off in the process.

After dropping Santana off, I get to my apartment building by four in the morning, fiddling with my keys in the dark, struggling to lift the door up just enough to get it to open. This old apartment building is full of tricks to get everything to work. I remember it took over an hour to explain to Brittany how to open that door—and she still has to holler for help when the shower becomes scalding hot.

Then I begin to shuffle faster as I see my door. My mind is a clean slate, albeit groggy. No longer full of emotional turmoil, my mind merely chants _bed bed bed come to me come to me. _

But I nearly trip over something as I anxiously reach for the door knob. It clunks against the door.

I bend down, and I see that it's a book. A rather thin book with a sticky note on it. I take it inside, lock the door once I'm in, weave my way through all the junk on our living room floor, and then I turn on the light of my room as soon as I've shut my door.

It says my name. The note says "Rachel." And the book is The Things They Carried.

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><p>AN: Once again, thanks so much to Marcela for being my beta! And I hope you're enjoying this story! You might catch on that this is a loose interpretation of "Persuasion," hence I chose a new title.

Can you tell I love Pezberry yet? )


	3. They say he traveled very far

_CHAPTER THREE: They say he traveled very far_

A/N: Again thank you to Marcela (username: carmenmauri) for being a wonderful beta and suggesting this story idea!

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><p>"Rachel…"<p>

"No!" I snap into my phone.

"C'mon, Rachel, this isn't just a publicity event. It's to raise awareness!" Will begs me.

"You have Quinn to help you with that. My pride is hurt. It's only been two days since the casting list came out. Don't I have time to lick my wounds?" I sigh as I sink onto the living room couch. The television is off because my roommates are both gone. Sweet, sweet silence.

"Look, I'm sorry you're upset about us not giving you the lead, but you're still a big part."

"I have lines consisting of three paragraphs, and I double as a member of the chorus. That is not a large part," I point out. "Will, you know I'm better than my audition!"

"I know you are, but if I played favorites, that just wouldn't be fair. Besides, Puck thought you were perfect for the Martha part. And Finn, well, he's never seen you sing.

Just come. It's just for a few days. Besides, you are important. You are the understudy of Quinn!"

I sigh, remembering accepting the position. Since when am I willing to be an understudy?

(Maybe since the only guy I ever loved joined this production … The only guy who compelled me to be an understudy once before, so long ago…)

I hesitate and pull the phone down and put it up against my chest. I'm too embarrassed to tell him that, even if I agree to do this little tour of publicity events around New York City, I only have one nice dress to wear. It would be so embarrassing if they knew. I'm not sure if I can afford to buy a few new dresses. After a few deep breaths, I pull the phone back up.

Maybe, if I can manage to borrow a few dresses, this could work. Clearly, I don't have a choice in the matter.

"Rachel, this will be great practice for the paparazzi," he sings into the phone.

I concede.

In three weeks, I am to travel with cast mates, crew, and Finn to various events to promote the musical and—apparently—Finn and Puck's foundation for music therapy for veterans with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I can't help but roll my eyes at the thought of Puck doing this for anything but good press.

He probably thinks war is _badass_ and Finn just came from a big video game.

Suddenly, Tina, with Artie in tow, bursts into the apartment. Artie shouts a greeting to me as Tina flicks on the television. My heart aches a little as I see them look at one another warmly and hold hands. But then Tina looks past her shoulder at me, noting my crestfallen expression.

"What's wrong?" she asks. Artie turns to me, too.

"Oh, just got dragged into doing extra work for the play even though I have this miniscule part, and I don't have enough money to buy new dresses for these events! Maybe I could ask Santana—"

"I have a dress that doesn't fit me anymore. Maybe you'd want that?"

Tina rushes to get the dress, and I know, before she comes back that it will be in that juvenile Gothic style she loves so much but looks far too immature for big press events.

Sure enough, it has a skull as a broach on the lacey black turtleneck.

"It's… Well. It's probably my size, but, no. God, no," I dismiss her.

She flops on the couch with her dress on the hanger (yet another thing that will sit in this living room for weeks) and sighs.

"Okay, fine. Just trying to help!" she sighs.

Then Artie speaks up: "What if you took the skull off?"

I crane my head and scoop up the dress. Yes, that might work! Also, that atrocious cut on the sleeves could be adjusted, and ….

"I could do that!" I exclaim, and I excuse myself to my room.

I sit at my bed and take out my sewing kit Mom bought me as a going away present. It's mostly good for patch-ups, but I would see it through an almost complete renovation this time.

I sit on something with a rather sharp corner, and I cry out and hop back up. I turn and realize I sat on the book. The post-it note is gone.

No, it's not gone. I feel the post-it on my butt.

I then stare at the book a moment, wondering who dropped it at my doorstep, if I might read it—as part of my research for the show…

But then I panic and put the book under my bed and try to forget about it.

I finish re-vamping Tina's vamp dress, and shortly after, I text Santana, and she brings over five outfits she thinks I could borrow. All vulgar but one.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I forgot that actresses are supposed to dress like nuns!" she sighs as she falls backward onto her pile of clothes on my bed. She's been snappy all day, and I don't know why. She's not listening to me, so I've been snappy right back.

Santana calls it the Pezberry Effect.

I ask her why _she_ gets to come first in our portmanteau.

Anyway, I sigh, go to the bathroom, and try the most suitable dress on and am rather pleased with the results. It fits me well enough—no shorter than skirts I normally wear, and not too tight.

"See? What'd I tell you?" Santana tells me triumphantly when I emerge.

"Actually, this isn't as tight on me as it is on you," I mumble, still in a cross mood from that phone call earlier. I look down to inspect my body because there isn't a mirror large enough to really see it all. I've learned to go by feel and looking down at myself.

Santana throws a pillow at me, and I laugh, delighted at the response I knew my snarky response would elicit; "Oh, sweetie, you're just _asking_ me to go Washington Heights on you. They're called boobs, diva, and they're better than being a popsicle stick. Like that one you've got up your ass. There'll be other plays, Berry. Move. On."

"It's not just that!" I say. "Do you remember the boy I dated in high school my senior year? Who I dumped right before coming here? The boyishly handsome, tall, and heartbreakingly sweet and charming drummer with a singing voice like honey and milk?"

Santana scoff-chuckles at my winded—and just-description: "Yeah."

"Also the quarterback with gorgeous hazel eyes?" I add in a languishing voice.

"_Yeah,_" she groans.

"Well, he's Finn Hudson!"

"You're fucking with me! No!" she counters.

I nod at her furiously.

"Well, _shit_, son!" she empathizes.

"Exactly!" I exclaim. Then I fall back onto the bed next to her and sigh. I feel her thumb brush my arm.

Then I groan as my bed sheets undo themselves from the corners of my mattress and cocoon Santana and I in. My bed sheets are from my college dorm days. They are twin-size long, and my bed is a full. I never wanted to spend the money on new sheets even though they are too small for my mattress.

"You've gotta be kidding. A freakin' pink and purple polka-dotted cocoon! Only with you, Berry. Only with you," she says as she crinkles her nose, her face inches from mine.

And I can't help but laugh. It really is ridiculous. All of this.

Only with me.

* * *

><p>For the tenth time, I pull down the dress that I am borrowing from Santana. Just by virtue of being in Santana's dress, I am self-conscious. What of, I'm not sure. That it'll make me inappropriately flirty or that the skirt will fly up like blinds on windows. Take your pick.<p>

The limo soon comes around the corner to pick me up at the address I gave Will and Puck. (Though my address is on my papers from the try-out, I managed to get them to believe I had a hair-styling appointment, and I wanted them to pick me up at the ritzy salon. I didn't want them to see my shoddy neighborhood, if I could help it—though, someone—was it Finn?—already had.)

I was clearly the last to be picked up, as Puck, Will, Quinn, Finn, Mercedes (Will's choice to represent the chorus on our publicity tour), and the two male leads are already seated in the fine leather interior. Their outfits all look insanely expensive, and I realize that I will never fit in and am instantly in a crummy mood.

"Why are we taking a limo, again? Couldn't this be money better spent on the show or foundation?" I ask with a baleful stare at Puck. I'm not poor; I'm socially conscious. That's it. Exactly.

"_Please. _When I go places, I arrive in style. Same goes for my people. Gotta show the masses what we're worth," Puck answers, stretching his arms above and behind his head, winking at Quinn, who is seated between the smug composer and Finn.

Seated quite snugly next to Finn, might I add.

"Is she—is she selling earrings or something?" Quinn asks as she looks past my shoulder, pointing a gold-studded finger.

I whip my head around and see that it's Brittany. My roommate is standing just outside of the limo, holding out a pair of my pink dangly earrings. She knocks on the window and looks at me expectantly.

"C'mon. I walked all this way," her muffled voice comes through the window.

"Uh, sorry," I say to the staring, bedazzled crowd in the limo, my voice hardly audible as I crack open the door.

"_What?_" I hiss at her.

"Since I'm letting you use one of my dresses this week, do you mind if I use a few of your earrings? Also, I think I accidentally used your toothbrush, sorry," Brittany asks loudly so that the whole limo can hear.

"Yes, fine, fine, "I practically cough out and slam the door shut as she gives me a sweet smile, as if she's unaware she just demolished any chance I had of fitting in this group and being respected.

I turn back, and I see Quinn, who is now rubbing shoulders with Finn, saying something in his ear, and then a smile tugs at her lips. Then she presses her lips together, trying to hide the smile when she sees me looking.

And Finn.

Well, I simply can't look at Finn's face. I give Will and Mercedes, who are sitting to my right, a polite smile and greeting. They return the greeting with even more warmth than usual. It's clear they pity me. And I know that talking to them is beginning to maim my pride—those two pairs of soft, fuzzy eyes and concerned furrows in their brows. It's difficult to endure.

But I'll take that pity because the sound of my pride screaming in agony due to Will's sap and Mercedes' amiability is just enough to drown out Quinn's flirtatious lilting sentences and giggling.

And when that pathetic attempt at conversation dies down, I look out the window. I watch as we pass Mayan-inspired graffiti commissioned by the Latino neighborhood council, the beautiful, well-kept houses of the upper-crust, the falafel stands just a block away, followed by some magnificent bank buildings, then lush Central Park.

No matter how Hell-ish of a turn my life takes, I am always reminded of why I came here. The vivacity, the colors, the diversity.

I love New York, and I'll never leave. Not in a million years. Not if the price of living triples what it is now. By virtue of living here, everything feels important.

Even if I'm not and may never be.

I love New York.

* * *

><p>When we arrive at the publicity event, I feel underdressed. I am the only one flashing lower thigh. It's like I missed the memo that said Ball Gown Affair.<p>

I even feel inadequate when I smile, remembering that I may have gone days using a tainted tooth brush before Brittany finally told me she had accidentally used it because she didn't see the ten gold star stickers I had used to mark that that toothbrush was _mine_.

No hygiene. No privacy. No glamour. No respect. And no silence of mind, for the TV is perpetually on.

I hear some harsh whispers behind me and recognize Quinn's snark immediately.

"You're a rehab bouncer, and you'll _always_ be one. Just get away from me, loser. Has-been."

"Baby, I paid for that limo. Most of these people came for _me._ I may be a rehab bouncer, but I am _not_ a loser. Money and fame don't lie," Puck whispers back in a cocky and calm voice. "And you know you like a man with a little edge to him."

I start when we are introduced and Puck pats me on the butt and says, "We're on, princess."

I hear Quinn scoff. I'll get him for that later.

We make our way to a long table with chairs along one side—all the whitest of white. On a floral, elegant carpet. There is a dome above us that is a beautiful, deep mahogany.

I stare up there as the panel starts, knowing none of the press will address me, and I get lost in the beauty.

Ah, New York. So breathlessly gorgeous in one corner, and so dirty and smoggy that you can't breathe in another.

Suddenly, I hear someone call out "Captain Finn Hudson," and I am brought back to reality.

"Captain Hudson," a reporter begins, "Please tell us what motivated you to begin this foundation with Mr. Puckerman"

Finn breathes into the mic, and I _know_ that he is giving his half-smile to the audience, puffing a little air through his nose.

Six years. He hasn't changed.

But he has. He goes on:

"I'm so glad how well this effort has been received. I know I struggled, and I scared the—hell outta myself."

"How was that?" the reporter prods.

"The first month I was back from Afghanistan. I—I pinned my step-brother against the wall. Hard. He wouldn't tell me, but I know I hurt him. I yelled at him. And—and I saw him tear up. It was awful."

_Kurt? My God. Finn. Oh, Finn._

My jaw goes slack, and I look at him, see how he is struggling with the words.

"It was like… Nothing felt right anymore. Not after that. Not after the chaos, the insanity, the … the raw _terror _and exhilaration. I didn't feel right without a gun on me—without somewhere to run to or someone to shout at or to shout at me. Without that thrill when I get out of some scrape alive. Just silence. Me and my mind."

He gulps.

"There were times when I would have taken the Afghani's hateful yelling to that silence and … monotony. You know they call us 'dogwashers' over there? Because they think it's gross we wash our dogs and invite them in our homes."

He chuckles somberly, and the crowd joins him, the tension slightly broken.

"I'm not being political. I'm not giving an opinion either way about our occupation. It's just-it's like being insane, being in combat … Well, for some of us at least. And we need all the help we can get after being exposed to such … such intensity. It's too much to take. And The Things They Carried is kinda the best example of it. I don't read much, but that book changed my life. Inspired me to seek help—and I found it in music. It brought me back to simpler times. I loved music in high school, and it introduced me to some really inspiring, wonderful people. Takes me away from the combat in my mind—always in my mind._"_

I blink away a tear. I stare at this man who now looks out at the crowd, his guard completely down.

He wanted to spend his life with me, and I rejected him, condemned him to this … this combat in his mind that I could never possibly imagine.

Now he's so strong. Stronger than I am.

Yet he reached out to me. I know now that that book was from him for me. And I haven't read a word yet. I continue to reject him. Time and time again.

When I get home from the press event, I read the novel on the crowded couch, sitting with my roommates. At dinner, I make myself a bowl of cereal and continue to read careful not to get my soy milk on the crisp pages. I read it the rest of the day. I rush to get ready for bed just to cuddle up with the novel between my juvenile sheets until I finally fall asleep with the book finished, at three in the morning, a tear stuck to my left eyelash.


	4. Very far

_CHAPTER FOUR: Very far_

Two months of rehearsals pass. We are to preview one musical number in a week, and to celebrate, Puck invites us to his large apartment to celebrate late Saturday night.

I have no idea why I am going, but I am, and I wear the dress I got from Tina. I am the only one repeating formalwear, but I don't even care anymore. I just go to see Finn (with hopes of minimal Quinn flirtations).

I can't help but notice but anticipate how handsome Finn will look, and I realize I _do_ know why I am at Puck's party.

I come in, greet my co-stars and comment on the progress of the show. While doing so, Puck imposes himself on our conversation and offers me a drink. Without staring back, I take the glass of wine. Then my eyebrows spring up; it's Pinot Noir, my favorite, and it is delicious.

"That sucker's eighteen years old! It's like an orgasm on your tongue!"

I stay silent, trying to hide how _utterly delightful _it tastes. I take a few steps away, hoping Puckerman will get the hint.

He doesn't.

"You don't hafta be ashamed, you know. Poor chicks can be hot. I can dig it. They got that _edge _to 'em, you know? Like, street cred."

"_Noah,"_ I say in a low threat.

"Babe, call me Puck. Ain't no Noah here … Stop lookin' at me like that! Us self-absorbed Jews gotta look out for one another. Don't you think?"

I snort into my wine and can't fight the smile that blooms once the wine glass is away from my mouth. He smiles back at me. As barbaric as he seems sometimes, I realize that I don't truly hate him. Much as he has been hitting on me these past two months, I don't find him entirely repellent.

Besides, he often arrives with Finn when he visits during rehearsals, and his presence is often an ironic Godsend. His flattery counteracts the poisonous and numbing guilt mixed with hopeless yearning I feel whenever Finn's eyes find mine.

Also, his venturing hands often force me to look away from Finn and to my thigh, where I proceed to knock away the former rock star's hand.

I am about to do just that when I hear Will greet Finn.

"Finn! Hey! Glad you could make it! Quinn! Always a pleasure!"

My suspicions are confirmed. Finn looks incredibly handsome.

And I realize Quinn is arriving with him. He is arriving with her. _They are arriving together._

Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe they are in item.

I look up and see Finn looking at me. However, he instantly looks away to chat with Will and Quinn. How long was he standing there and staring at me?

Puck's and my conversation dwindles within a few minutes; I realize he is staring at Quinn. Then, I see him work his way around the room. It's a little endearing, seeing Puck nervous, trying to look casual as he works his way to Quinn, who is now seated in a corner rather far from everyone else—with Finn.

I unabashedly stare at Finn. And, I must admit, I think he would unabashedly stare, too, were it not for Quinn, who practically _drapes _herself over him as she is seated next to him. As if she is saying, _This boy is mine; back off._

When Quinn excuses herself, I realize that Puck has disappeared, too. I see Finn look down at his drink as I stare holes into the top of his head. I soon grow restless and sigh.

And before I know it, my legs are moving, and I am approaching him. Pointe blanc, I say:

"Why aren't you talking to me? Almost three months, and you stare and stare—and _nothing_. I know I should sit in a corner and burn in my shame, but I'm tired of that. You know me, Finn. I _hate_ being sorry for too long. I like myself bold, slightly insensitive, and determined. And I need you to give that back to me!"

His eyes seem to pop out of his head. He then licks his lips and gathers himself for words.

"Rachel, are you drunk?" he asks, much to my disappointment.

I take a few steps back, in a huff.

"No, Finn, I'm not! Is that all you have to say?"

He shakes his head, looks down, and sighs. I cross my arms and fidget as I see him run his hand through his hair.

Such a familiar gesture.

"No. No, of course, it's not, Rachel," he begins, an odd weight added to my name.

I stand and wait—and suddenly, Quinn's perfectly manicured hand latches onto my shoulder. I start rather violently, and I see her stare at me suspiciously—as if I did something wrong.

And worse yet—I _feel_ like I did something wrong. Like I was zoning in on Quinn's property. But he's not hers. At least, not officially.

I realize Puck did not return to the party with Quinn, and I wonder about those two. Has Quinn not made anything official with Finn because of Puck? I am now convinced there must be something going on between her and Puck.

Quinn has a talent for that. For establishing limits without saying anything—playing with people's minds and making them second-guess themselves. I rather admire that ability, to be quite frank.

"Hey, Rachel! You wanna join us? I think there's room on this sofa, if you wanna sit," she asks.

There is no room on the sofa—at least, not enough to sit if one desires to maintain one's dignity. She knows this, and so I begin to shake my head and back away. I see she is pleased with herself. I burn from the roots of my hair in some intense combination of embarrassment and anger.

Then she stands straight up and claps her hands over her mouth. She gets horribly pale, and I reach out to her and put my arm across her back to her far shoulder.

"Quinn? What's the matter? Should I call an ambulance?" I ask.

She pushes me away and runs out of the room. Everyone stares after her. I automatically follow her.

She stumbles down the corridor, making sounds like she's going to vomit, and then she claws onto a doorframe to her right and throws herself into the room. I follow right behind her, and sure enough, she is vomiting into the toilet—between gasping sobs.

"This isn't supposed to happen! Not now!" she complains with a shaky voice into the toilet bowl.

I freeze at the door.

"Quinn, are you—"

She motions with her hands frantically, and I gather she wants me to close the door. I do, and then I kneel, considering moving in closer to Quinn to rub her back, but balking.

"Oh, you are _loving_ this, aren't you?" she says darkly just before she empties her stomach once more.

"I'm not," I answer honestly.

Whatever Quinn ate, it didn't smell gross coming back up. Leave it to Quinn to make vomiting less gross. She was some kind of exception to any girl. Except that… Apparently …

"I met him less than _three months _ago! The _moron _didn't use protection!" she snarls.

My breath catches in my throat as I realize who the_ him _must be. Had to be. _Three months._

"I know what you're thinking. I have to tell Will. The puking, it used to be within three hours in the morning, so it never intervened with work. But _now_ the schedule is screwed up, and I'm spewing my guts out at all random hours," she stops as her shoulders tense, and she throws up some more.

I hear a knock and Will's muffled voice.

I stand and go to open the door. Will walks in, looking from me to Quinn with a brow deeply etched with worry.

"Quinn? Did you get food poisoning?" he asks.

I gulp and look at her. Even if I would enjoy snitching on her and gaining my rightful place as the female lead, I can't speak, can't move.

"I'm almost ten weeks along," Quinn chokes out.

"Quinn, are you—are you pregnant?" Will gasps.

"Go ahead and take the part from me. I know you're thinking it," her voice becomes detached, bracing herself for what's to come.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," Will concedes.

Her head sinks to the side of the toilet bowl, and she closes her eyes.

I can't take this anymore, so I step out. I take out my cell phone, and I call the taxi service I have saved on my cell phone contacts list.

The phone is still ringing as Finn approaches me, eagerly asking if Quinn is all right. I hold a finger up to silence him. He looks confused—and a little hurt—momentarily, but then he takes a step back and waits.

I give the taxi service Puck's address and make them guarantee me they can be here soon, repeating the address three times. As I do this, I see Finn staring at me with a tender look in his eyes, like he could sink down and melt into the chair he is standing in front of. I blush and look away.

Then I feel tears burn when I remember what Quinn said. That Quinn was having his baby.

When I snap my phone shut, Puck ambles into the room with a flask of whiskey with his band's symbol on it. Then he pauses when he detects the tense air shared by Will, Finn, and me.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"Quinn isn't feeling well. And Rachel just responded right away and called a taxi and everything. Like, just like _that,_" Finn explains.

"Yes, don't worry. Rachel has this covered," Will said, the double-meaning clear in his voice.

The lead. I have the lead covered now.

And Finn. But he has a baby on the way, now. Whywhywhywhy must he do this to me?

Without looking at him, I go back to the bathroom, help Quinn up, and lead her out of the bathroom. Quinn quickly refuses to let me guide her, complaining that she's "_pregnant, not cripple"_ with a harsh whisper.

As we pass Finn, looking even more worried now that he sees how pale Quinn is, I tell Finn he had better take care of her and help her home.

Seeing as he did this to her-_to me_. To her.

_To me._

The next week of rehearsals is a flurry of inner toil and flat-out ecstasy. The two continually combat for dominance. When I am onstage and have that beacon shining down on me, I feel like I could fly. I forget the world, and I _am_ the stage.

However, when I step off the stage, I am always in a dismal mood. Dismal as I realize I'm not worthy of Finn's love.

That I never even had his love.

Worse yet, in Quinn and Finn's absence, a rumor has festered that says the two are engaged. Mercedes tells me that Quinn and Finn are gone because they are going to their families in their home states to announce their engagement.

"Where did you hear that?" I ask her as we sit in the audience seats, awaiting instructions for rehearsal.

"Kathy told me," Mercedes answers.

"And who told Kathy?" I cross my arms.

"Well, Elaine," she confesses.

"And who told Elaine?"

"Look, I know Elaine can be a total gossip, sometimes, but—"

"_You're _a total gossip," I interrupt her.

"Well, sor-_ry!_ But, I mean, just look at them. They just _look_ so perfect together. Pretty white folks with money marry other pretty white folks with money. It's just the way it is."

"You seriously think she'll keep the baby?"

"That's what she wants, I'm pretty sure. It's kinda part of her religion and what her family expects," Mercedes explains.

"But she could be great on Broadway, and she's gonna raise a baby she didn't want with a man she hardly knows," I say without really thinking. "I mean… Maybe she could, you know."

"Well, you know what, snooty, her future ain't looking that bad. I wouldn't say she's just settling. She's wanted this for a while. You know that. Besides, Quinn could come back to off-Broadway later. Not all of us wanna kill ourselves getting to Broadway."

"And you?"

Mercedes shrugs. "I like where I am. I have fun doing what I'm damn good at. I don't ruffle any feathers. I just do what I love. I could do this forever. I mean, don't you like our group? We're kind of a family. I really like it. I got my heart broken in this business enough to know when to stop torturing myself."

I look at her, pensively. Maybe my life would be better if I could get that mindset, I think for the two hundredth time. Just focused on doing what I love and not so obsessed with the dream of the masses loving me.

I give up on the conversation, then, and fall silent until Mercedes and the other chorus members are called up to the stage.

I want to be loved and feel like I belong, I've always known that much. It's just the _who_ that's the problem. I used to think it was just the masses whose love I desired. If all of New York loved me, how could I possibly ever feel alone?

But I realize that I have always wanted it all. For people to love me in every kind of relationship life has to offer.

The cause of this realization is around me nearly all the time now.

Why did Finn have to come in and complicate everything?

Rehearsal goes on without me needed, and I sink deeper and deeper into my thoughts. To escape my gloomy thoughts, I open my phone to discover Santana has been texting me.

She is worried about how she likes Brittany _too much._

"It's almost been 3 mos. of dating. I have to break it off. I mean, right? Otherwise, I may as well not have my dating rules at all!" her text complains.

To which I reply: "At least YOU have dates. I haven't had any since college."

But she soldiers on:

"Brittany's so insanely hot. Just something about her. But after 3 mos. relationships are never that good. That's why I established the rule."

And then:

"I mean, right?"

Feeling lonelier than ever, I ignore my best friend's last two texts. Her texts get more and more angry. She hates being ignored as much as I do.

But I still ignore her.

And I spend my time ignoring her thinking of a way to make it up to her. I dismiss buying her dinner because it's too expensive. Then I wonder if her favorite cupcake shop in Queens is still open as I mope in the dark.

As the big preview gets closer, Finn doesn't come to any more rehearsals.

_Engaged. Could he really be?_

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN- _**Can I just say that I _adore _those of you who review me or personally message me your support? Because I love getting your feedback! I love knowing _you guys _love this, too! It's truly, truly wonderful. So _thank you._


	5. Sad of eye

Chapter five: Sad of eye

I sit at the vanity backstage and stare at my reflection, thinking about the past events. I have been mulling over them nearly every day now. I think about Quinn's pregnancy, the manner of her relationships with Puckerman and Finn. At first I am in despair. I figure Noah is just a chronic flirt with his sights set on many girls, Quinn and myself included.

But then I wonder why they disappeared at the party. Together. Why Puckerman came back with strong spirits in a flask, as if he desired suddenly to get drunk faster than the wine could get him boozed up. I can't help but think that Quinn has made Puckerman different somehow … Like he wants to prove something to her…

But Quinn appears to have chosen Finn, and that's all that matters. No one steals what Quinn Fabray wants.

But has Finn chosen Quinn? Could he really be the father? Why must I hope so badly-so badly it _aches_—that he's not?

I smack myself in the forehead, then, and banish the thoughts that taint my show time countdown concentration.

I re-adjust the star on my mirror and then smile at the post card from my Dads and mom. "See you when you're on Broadway!" it reads.

It's showtime!

I get out of my seat, humming my solo, to turn around and go to the other side of my dressing room to shut the door—when I see him. I gasp as my eyes fall on the face of Finn, who is standing in the doorway, his fist half-way to the door, about to knock.

"Finn!" I exclaim.

He raises his eyebrow in response—so typically _joyously _Finn! And it's like I've forgotten an _engaged man_ I have basically pined over for six years is in my dressing room and I'm eighteen again. And we both stand straighter with no baggage weighing us down, and our eyes shine brighter, untarnished by harsh reality.

Then I hear Will down the hall. He is shouting an announcement for the cast. We are to have a pre-show meeting. _Right now._

"I won't keep you. I just wanted to tell you that . . . What you did at the party, taking care of Quinn—that was really cool," he says.

My heart flutters at the familiarity of his rhetoric.

But wait.

He's grateful to me for taking care of Quinn? Or could it have been anybody?

"Also," he says, then pauses as I hold my breath.

"Break a leg."

With that phrase, I am brought back to that day I told him those very words at Regionals our Senior year. (Well, the only year I knew him.) And how he replied with …

_I love you!_ My mind hollers. It's on the tip of my tongue. It's jumping from the fringe of my sanity. Brewing from my heart. I really want to say it—but something is holding me back.

"Hey, Finn! Great to see ya!" Will says as he swoops into the doorway of my dressing room, pulling Finn's attention from me. "Rachel, the whole cast has a meeting right now in the green room."

I silently nod at my director. And then I watch with watery eyes as Finn and Will walk away together, Finn looking back briefly to wave good bye.

Maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe he wasn't implying he loved me at all. For all I know, he just said it to try it out, like someone informed him that "Good luck" said around a stage was bad luck. He must be very pleased with his theatre education!

But he was watching expectantly! He only left because of Will.

Maybe he is giving me time. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if Finn were to visit backstage after the show. His hazel eyes would latch to my brown ones, and I could tell him then!

I will! I will tell him, I decide.

Then I cheerfully get ready in my dressing room, reveling in the fact that this _is _my dressing room and no one else's. I have been stealing extra hours in here this whole week, enjoying the silence and the general roommate-less-ness of it all.

I begin to hum my solo "Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong," as I get ready.

The show is amazing. The adrenaline pumps through me and lifts my voice high:

_I want to eat this place._

_Vietnam._

_I want to swallow it all._

_It's an appetite._

_I get scared sometimes-_

_But it's not bad-No!_

_It's the best thing I ever had._

_Out there in the night,_

_I feel my blood moving._

_Out there in the night,_

_I feel I could glow_

I sing in a ripped pink cardigan, the sweetheart of one of the soldiers, fresh out of high school, come to be with her betrothed. She changes. She is slowly lost to Vietnam and goes out and fights the war at night. She makes a collection of her prizes (Ew.) in a cave. Soon, the soldiers stop looking for her, and she _becomes _Vietnam.

After my solo, I am backstage, occasionally singing my eery reprise into my mic, in my "cave," lost to the countryside and the war. Some would call my character's story a tragedy because of the loss of innocence.

But I am beginning to see what Finn means—the pure "clusterfuck" it is (his word, not mine). It's both a lucid and a cloudy moment. An understanding and an end to the concept of understanding—of certainty. It's glorious.

It's art.

Finn's whole life. It's awful, rapid, skittish, magnificent art.

It creates for damn good drama. It's too little and too much. It's like New York. It's dirty and forbidden, shining and inviting. It tears you down; it kills your spirit and brings it back to life in a millisecond.

New York, of course, doesn't generally kill you as often.

A metaphor, even one of mine, can only go so far.

The lights go up in the house, then, because the show is ending. I walk onstage to my rumbling heavy-bass musical cue, chin held high. As I reach center stage to bow, I see Finn in the second row, eagerly getting up to clap and smile. Smile at me.

I grin right back.

And my signature 1000 Watt Rachel Berry grin grows brighter when I see Santana and her much-angsted-over date Brittany. Santana isn't clapping, but she blows a whistle with her fingers that is obnoxiously ear-piercing. That is what she does; she doesn't clap; she breaks eardrums. It's Santana.

The boys of the cast are whooping when I get in the green room. One of the girls even suggests "we" (of whom I am included!) go out to drinks later tonight. The whole room is jittery in the post-performance buzz.

Will clasps my shoulder at one point and leads me to the backstage exit. Our friends, family—and even some fans—are in the alley to greet us. Eyes from well above the crowd are what first call my attention. It's Finn. And he's staring again.

He approaches me, and my feet seem to forget to support my legs for a moment.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," I nervously put a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Like always, you totally blew me away."

"Thank you. That—that means so much—coming from a war hero and all . . ." I say, blushing.

His eyes get harder.

"I'm not a hero," he says as he looks away.

Desperate for his gaze, my hand flies to his fore arm.

"But you are! All the things you're doing for veterans. It's so inspiring!"

He looks back up at me, and I feel warm and fuzzy again. He gives me a weak, appreciative smile, then he takes in a deep breath.

"I wish I could …. Just. _Rachel._ Everything's so messed up over there. Insurgents kill kids who live on the street, take out their guts, and insert bombs in them. What the _fuck_ is up with that? Huh?"

I gulp, realizing he is turning red, getting angry.

"I couldn't save him … This boy. He was funny, pretty good English. And they killed him."

My eyelids flutter, and I feel it seeping into my body again—the raging guilt. That guilt I felt at the sight of him for months. In high school, he had such a sweet outlook on life. Now that view of life is all but destroyed.

But he's still him. That compassion is still there.

"I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm not good company. I make everyone miserable, and I get—_so angry _sometimes, I just wanna … I just shouldn't be allowed around people any more. I hate people after I've seen what they're capable of doing."

His nose actually flares, and I can't help but start. But, as a reflex, I shout, "Don't say that! I know you, and you are far too good to do anything bad. Even now, your compassion and sweetness from high school, it's still very much there."

"Thanks," he says in an empty voice, not yet back to living in the here and now. "You always could … Always knew … Just thanks."

There's a pregnant pause. I look down, biting my lip when he practically shouts:

"So. You and Puck aren't—never …"

"Oh, no!" I dismiss his thought immediately.

He looks relieved. My heart skips a beat. I must be visibly relieved, as well, because his face softens significantly. He emits a little laugh, and I echo it.

Then, _of all times,_ Santana rushes over to me and pulls me to her, demanding my full attention and my body physically away from Finn. She has Brittany in tow. She gives me a playful jab in the shoulder as she says:

"You _murdered_ it up there! Show kinda sucks, but _goddamn_, you make a great crazy lady!"

Still unwilling to let Brittany's hand go, she gives me a one-armed hug as I chuckle.

"Thanks, I guess!"

Does Santana not _see_ Finn there? After all I told her!

She goes on about how the play didn't make sense, but she thought I was great. (She ignores my every reminder that this is a preview and not the whole play.)

As I watch Finn awkwardly walk away, giving me a little wave and disappearing into the crowd.

Then, as if Santana knew her evil work was done, she turns to Brittany.

"C'mon, Brit-Brit, time to get our Santittany on!"

What _is_ it with Santana and making up these portmanteaus—and _always _putting herself first?

"For real, girl," she says, turning back to me, "You kicked ass! Talk to you later!"

I watch as, before I can say good-bye, she heads out of the alleyway and to the main street. It is then that I realize they aren't holding hands: they are linked by their pinkies!

My heart both soars and burns as I think, my best friend, the insensitive, ruthless lawyer has found love!

Is Love going to find me again? He knows where I'll be every evening.

* * *

><p>"Though you could have harnessed more pain and anguish in that last, languishing note, I will admit: you are good."<p>

I jump as I hear a voice upon entering my dressing room. I clasp the door frame for support and locate the source of the voice. It's coming from my vanity.

"Uh, thank you," I say as I stare at the young man. Rather handsome. Nice hair.

Not like Finn's. But still nice.

"Please. Sit," he beckons me as he leans against my vanity desktop. I sit at my desk chair, sitting below and diagonal to him. And, as if he weren't close enough, he leans in farther.

"I have been watching you for quite some time," he pauses thoughtfully. Dramatically. "Well, not that much time. I've only been in New York for a few weeks, and I have been keeping quite busy. Before I came here, I was busy starring in a little professional revival production in Chicago called RENT. Maybe you've heard of it. Before that, I attended the prestigious theatre program at University of California, Los Angeles. That's near Hollywood. In Los Angeles."

My mouth falls open a little. He has impressive credentials, I have to admit. And his breath smells _good._

"That's wonderful, Mr…"

"Jesse. Jesse St. James. That's with an 'e,' not 'ie' like that redundant hit from the '80s."

"Mr. St. James—"

"_Jesse_," he insists.

"Mr. _With An E_ … What's this have to do with me?"

He chuckles deeply.

"You're funny. I'll note that for later on … However, you have a valid question."

He stands up and reaches his hand out to shake. I take it.

"I'm your show's new co-director, and you are my new star," he says as he takes my hand in both of his.

I can't help but smile.

* * *

><p>That Monday, I am in a wonderful mood. I spent the entire weekend, coaching myself various situations to prepare for that might try to impede my mission to tell Finn I still love him. And today is the big today.<p>

I am humming Celine the whole Subway trip to rehearsal:

_Hush, now,_

_I see the light in the skies,_

_Oh!_

_It's almost blinding me!_

_I can't believe! _

_I've been touched by an angel with love._

I step into rehearsal, and before long, the beautiful face of one Finn Hudson is smiling at me in greeting as Will calls the start of rehearsal. (Jesse appears to be running late.)

I smile shyly in return, giddy all over. How silly I was to think that Finn would knock up a girl he barely knew! It must have been a terrible misunderstanding. It must have!

Ten minutes into rehearsal, Jesse St. James makes his entrance, singing over Will, who was showing the chorus how he wanted the bridge sung.

This man knows how to make an entrance.

He struts down the aisle and lets his binder fall open to just the page he wants to go over. He requests me, center stage. I quickly obey.

He gives me new dance moves—says that my performance needs to be more _raw_ and robust.

Basically, sexy. So I give him sexy.

And he teases me with his eyes. He chuckles deep in his throat and slides his hand down my back. I snatch the hand and give him my best sultry eyes.

He smiles, applauds me, and says that everyone else in the cast, but me, is lazy—and he would like to work on that next. "As much as I would love to work with Rachel _day and night…_" He adds.

I grin at the many jealous faces of my fellow cast members and practically skip to the side of the stage.

Then I gaze into the audience. I see Finn with a look of disgust on his face, and I cough-choke when I realize what Jesse had just said. How Finn might have interpreted it! Oh, God! Damn my purity of mind and my peerless ability to focus on being professional!

I give him a large smile, and his face appears to soften a bit. After the frown lines disappear, I am able to rejoice over Finn being jealous because of me. I think a healthy amount of jealousy in a man is wonderful—so dramatic and erotic!

I sit down with Mercedes just backstage (not too backstage that I can't still glimpse Finn occasionally), who is not part of this chorus scene. She smiles and nods at me in greeting; I do the same.

After a brief silence, she says, "You know, my friend was jogging in front of Finn Hudson's apartment complex?"

It takes me a while to realize that there are more important things than admiring Finn's eyebrows and that Mercedes seems to want me to egg her on—wait _she's talking about Finn?_

"Yeah?" I prod, all ears.

"She remembered it from the time she passed and a TV crew was there, and she asked what was up … Well, anyway! She saw a U-Haul truck outside. There was a guy moving in a purple couch!" Mercedes is very pleased with herself.

I stare at her in horror.

"You know what that means?" she says in a sing-song voice.

I continue to stare in horror.

"Quinn's moving in! They are engaged! Or at least as good as engaged. Didn't I tell you? I ain't just some silly gossip. You gotcher proof, Diane Sawyer," she concludes, crossing her arms.

"That's impossible! I mean, how do you know that U-Haul truck wasn't for another apartment? Your friend was jogging by, so her vision was impeded by all the-the-the—" I flail my hands in a gesture to act out the word I'm searching"—the bouncing!"

"Well, she stopped and watched, silly. She saw the couch pass the window of his apartment. _He was standing there watching. _You can't deny that cold, hard evidence, girl," she says laughingly.

Cold.

Hard.

I try to repeatedly swallow the lump in my throat that isn't really there. I feel my internal light flicker and die—and with it comes a sinking feeling in my chest down to my stomach. I bolt from the auditorium through the loud backstage exit.

It's raining a little outside, but I don't care. I stand out there and whisper to myself, "I'm an idiot. I'm _such _an idiot."

The breeze picks up, and a semi drives by, making a splash so big, my face is sopping wet—so I can't tell the tears from the dirty street water.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I'm so sorry this chapter took a while! If you follow me on Tumblr, you know I have had some big changes in my life, and it's been quite overwhelming. I will, OF COURSE, finish this story. It'll just be a slower process from now on.

AND the format is fixed! It helped when I went to the university library, where I have a file I can save this onto and upload properly. Beforehand, I couldn't save onto my apartment building's lobby computers, so I copied and pasted, and I guess that was what messed up the layout! I'm so pleased!


	6. Fools and kings part I

Chapter six: Fools and kings, part I

* * *

><p>I have to admit that, although he may very probably be the reason Finn was gone when I returned to rehearsal the following week, Jesse St. James is quite good. Within a week, Jesse had rearranged the show and done an overhaul of the chorus, firing half of them and giving the rest brand new choreography for the whole show to memorize for the next week.<p>

And this week, the show has felt significantly more polished. Transitions are smoother. The chorus numbers feel cohesive. And I am being featured even more!

After rehearsal on Thursday, when Jesse keeps us behind even when he said he would let us out early, I go to the library, thinking about spilling my bleeding heart to my mother digitally—when I see an email from Kurt!

_Salut, Rachel!_

_C'est moi! Kurt!_

_Of course, you knew that._

_Listen. I am moving to New York City for graduate school in a week. I start school in the Spring, but I decided I wanted to get rooted before I start at NYU._

_I know it's sudden, and I'm sorry for not telling you when I got accepted in May. You know how life can get so hectic sometimes._

_Anyway, being a fashion designer, though I excel in it, is not all it's cracked up to be. Everyone is so dull with an entirely empty attic. My brain is getting no stimulation, and I'm pretty sure it will decay if I don't get out of here—or work for GaGa, but that may take decades._

_So I applied to NYU's graduate school for Comparative Literature. As you may remember, I perfected my French on a fashion internship in Paris at twenty, and have, since then, learned Portuguese._

_Did I tell you I went to Rio over this past summer? It was absolutely scintillating!_

_So, Miss Berry, we must catch up! I want you to be my guide. Tell me where you want to meet up for coffee or drinks (if the latter, a place with wine, please; I can't stomach anything else), and I will oblige._

_Can't wait to see you. This apartment is so lonely._

_Beijos,_

_Kurt_

My stomach flutters with excitement. To have another friend in the city would be wonderful! Santana has been so busy with Brittany, and I have been cooped up alone in my room most nights, feeling abandoned—and even worse, feeling I _deserve_ to feel abandoned.

He also could be someone to take my mind off Finn. The _brother _of Finn, ironically, could help alleviate my sorrow over Finn.

His asking me to be his guide must mean that Finn truly is gone from the city. Perhaps forever. I try to ignore the thought. My mind swims in longer past memories, instead.

I remember how I used to want to be Kurt's friend so badly. When we were in Glee club, he would say the funniest things, sometimes. He once crooked his finger at me in the hallway. When I approached him, he said, "That hair! Miss Rachel Berry, your part is going in twelve different directions!" And he fixed it for me.

I couldn't stop smiling. I thought he … "had my back," as they say. The both of us being misfits and all. I realized later that I was wrong. He wanted little to do with me and my toxic relationship.

When he sang "Defying Gravity," he did such a good job. I felt a tear threaten to fall. I thought that, if we were on Broadway together, we could cheer one another on instead of compete for a solo—because boys and girls are _never _at odds for roles. I thought that, if only we met in a different time or place, we could be best friends. Maybe have sleepovers.

I never had a sleepover with best friends. Finn was my only best friend in high school—and I could hardly have gotten away with having a sleepover with him.

One day, I grew brave enough to approach him, proposing we start a club together—the GayLesbAll—but he rebuffed me. But I didn't stop approaching him—and one day, we connected. And for a few months, we planned our respective futures together. We became close. I saw what it was like to have a platonic friend.

But then, we ordered our flight tickets, wished one another well. And, after two years, emails got spotty. I noticed that he mentioned his father sometimes and no one else. Most of the time, he talked of himself and of what he was seeing.

And in this library—closing in fifteen minutes, a library harshly whispers into my ear—I revel in the fact that Kurt's self-interest is still very much intact. So perhaps I won't have any spontaneous tears elicited by mention of his brother. This city is so big that, while out with friends, the topic of family hardly mixes. Shining lights! Food pushed in our faces! Street performers! Everything one could possibly think of is out there to keep one from the scary, dark place of one's mind.

Or, rather. _My_ mind.

For example, I've known Santana for over five years, she's only complained to me about her mother maybe twice-and I've only met her sister once.

If only I could be sure I could stomach seeing Finn once every five years. With a five year old. Then a ten year old.

As I type a quick response under the impatient gaze of a mustachioed librarian, my head is a maelstrom of blond babies with perfect noses and soft, hazel eyes. Fighting the upsetting images down, I tell him of my favorite place in Chinatown which Santana and I discovered while at NYU. It has the best bubble tea in town. Watermelon is my favorite. Santana tells me it's my favorite because the drink is pink, and I'm not sure it's entirely wrong of her to say so. She used to say that was because I was using it as an outlet for my frustration over not muff-diving, as she so crudely phrases it—but I begged to differ.

That was about the time I told Santana about Finn—about our having sex a dozen times over the course of a summer. I made it sound like there was more—and tried not to make it too apparent that he was my only partner in sex. One short summer when I was seventeen, and I have been president of the Celibacy Club ever since.

But, regardless of _that _fraction of the memory, I can't help but giggle at the memory of Santana's huge grin as she makes me blush. Her sex talk always did that to me, and she would let out this low hiccup-sounding laugh that would make me guffaw. Thinking back on my college days, when things were new and I was optimistic—and when I was Santana's number one girl and not Brittany—I feel cheered at the prospect of having another friend in my midst.

Why, yes, thank you. I _will _take the good with the bad.

* * *

><p>My retro alarm clock, the pink and purple polka-dotted one I bought to match my bed sheets in the dormitory, goes crazy and startles me awake. My hand falls on it like lead. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling.<p>

I hear a knock.

"Hey, Berry, you mind if I use your toothbrush before I go to work? I just can't wake Brits up to ask her for hers."

It's Santana. She's sleeping over with Brittany every weekend now. As if Artie's constant visits weren't enough in our tiny apartment.

It's odd, seeing her so often, but not really _seeing _her because she's so into Brittany right now. I miss her.

"Sure," my sleepy voice croaks, even though we both know that's disgusting, and I'll tell her to buy me a new toothbrush later.

"Thanks, lady!" she calls. And then I know she's gone.

One lover who reminds me of my pain gone. One more to go. And that exit isn't looking likely to be today. We just lugged Artie and his wheel chair to this apartment last night, and I get the feeling Brittany will be hung over most of today.

Suddenly, Santana is cracking my room door open, and I see her black-painted nails on the door frame.

"Oh, and, Rachel? Lay off the sitting in your room, listening to depressing Celine and Barbra. I'm getting worried about you."

I can't help but smile at her rare soul-exposing moment.

"And, little diva, maybe that Jesse kid could make you feel better. Hudson won't be circling your apartment singing 'Iris' any time soon. You should have fun and stop obsessing over everything being like a romcom. Just one night couldn't harm you, you know." I hear her almost run from my door as she anticipates my annoyance rising.

But it doesn't. That song. _Oh, my God, _that song.

"He would sound so _good_ singing that," I lament quietly to myself as I sink further into my bed.

* * *

><p>"You did the right thing. You know that," my mother had said to me the night I broke Finn Hudson's heart.<p>

"It doesn't make it any less painful," I blubbered to her, hurting from the veritable slap in the face that Finn's good bye was earlier that night.

I was under all of my blankets. In August. But I didn't care. I wanted to perish under the weight of dozens of blankets, if I could.

"It's okay, baby. Harness the pain for now and use it when you audition for a lead in Tisch's first musical. People relate to heartbreak. We _all _experience it. You should cherish it. It's an important aspect of life."

"Maybe my heartbreak is something I could cherish—but not his. Never his … He doesn't deserve it. Mom, you didn't see his face! He was crying!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to wish her rationality away. I see his face; hear his last words from a few hours ago.

"So that's it. You're just gonna drop me. Drop us. Pretend nothing happened. That nothing happened this summer. On Thursday!"

My heart thuds at his last words. Thursday night, we made love—as we had gotten into the habit of doing this summer—but that time, we fell asleep in one another's arms. We knew my dads wouldn't get home until noon the next day. When he left that morning, I was giddy with his never-ending good bye kisses. My fingertips were tingling from where they touched and pulled at his collar.

Then harsh reality struck. I received a letter from NYU on moving-in arrangements, and my mother decided it was time to more forecefully talk sense into me. Terrible, cold, hard sense. I called him to meet me later that night.

"Finn, I would hate myself if I held you back," I said in a shaky voice, almost resenting him bring up that night. "I want you to live your own life and realize your own dreams!"

"I am! I _have _my own life. Meeting you was the first time I had my own life. Hell, I have more than life; I have fire! It's, like—it's like fire shooting through my veins. When I'm with you, when I sing. I was like a robot before I met you. Rachel, you don't want to do this."

"But I do. You're not … not welcome to follow me to New York. Finn Hudson, you can't come with me."

And then he saw himself out of my house.

* * *

><p>I sit at the corner of Bowery and Elizabeth Street on a sunny October morning, eyeing the crowds for Kurt.<p>

I begin to feel anxious, wondering what was to come of this reunion. A sting of nervousness rushes through my limbs and core. I realize that he'll have all these amazing stories to share, and what have I to share? This whole time, I have been in New York trying—and failing—to accomplish my dream.

He'll think I'm pathetic.

But then there he is. He's taller. Quite handsome. And stylish as ever—

And then I'm even more intimidated as I watch him cross the street with his head held high, shoulders back, and adjusting his expensive-looking sunglasses.

Then I'm more at ease as I see him playfully flutter his fingers at me in greeting and pick up his walking pace.

When he's within arm distance, I panic, unsure of what kind of greeting he is expecting. He's been living in California, hasn't he? Don't they kiss cheeks when they greet one another?

I see him lean, and I go for the cheek.

It's very awkwardly received. He seems to lose his balance, and I revert back to sixteen year old misfit Rachel Berry, gasping out and unable to stare him in the eye.

_Wrong._

But then Kurt giggles, and his chime-like voice, same as ever, puts me at ease. That, at least, has not changed one bit. His voice is warm and familiar. I sigh in relief.

"I was thinking a hug, but, okay," Kurt says flippantly with a small smile.

"That's what show people do. It's European," I blurt.

Some do, but I don't. Most don't. Why did I just say that to him?

"I know," he says with an unreadable expression.

Right. He's actually _seen_ Europe.

'So! Here we are. Bubble Tea central. Very cute in here!" he comments, approving of the place I picked out.

He extends his elbow, and I take it. Smiling and laughing, we walk into the tiny restaurant in China Town.

* * *

><p>I arrive at my apartment to Tina and Brittany sitting on the couch and Artie beside it. Tina is painting her nails black as Artie watches TV. Brittany is working on her memorial scrapbook for her childhood cat Lord Tubbington. I cheerfully greet them, and they greet me back—a rare occurrence.<p>

"Were you seeing Jesse St. James?" Brittany asks.

"No. Why?" I ask.

"Well, I heard Santana say you were gonna knock boots with him, and Santana's psychic for a while after sex, so she's totally gonna be right."

"What? That's the silliest thing I've ever heard!" I exclaim.

"No, I'm totally serious. I get it after sex sometimes—but not as much as Santana. She saw me buying her a Long Island Iced Tea that night, and I totally bought it for her!"

"Because she said you would!" Tina says adamantly, shaking her head. Obviously, those two had already discussed this.

"Well, duh. 'Cause it was foreseen. I can't say no to destiny," Brittany coolly explains as she licks one of the puffy stickers and places it carefully on the yellow construction paper.

"I'll be in my room," I say, sighing, in too good of a mood to combat it. Tina and I share a look. _We_, at least, are sane.

But it isn't long before I march from the bathroom a few hours later, demanding my roommates—who are still on the couch—why she opened the package for my new toothbrush.

"I thought that was the one you owed _me_, Britts. So I used it," Tina explains as she looks from Brittany to myself.

"I thought it was the one Santana bought me after using mine. She promised she would…"

"Yeah, actually, that's what it was. Sorry, Tina. I forgot about your toothbrush," Brittany says in a low voice, looking at the cushion beside her.

Stomping my feet and huffing, I storm to my bedroom, grumbling myself to sleep over having no toothbrush—then waking up at 2 a.m. because I feel disgusting. I put toothpaste on my finger and try my best to scrub and then slip back to bed and lie awake for hours.

When I finish this show, I should have enough money to move out. For my sanity, I _must _move out. Must have my own place. My privacy,

_My own damn toothbrush._

* * *

><p>Then, as if Santana were truly a post-coital clairvoyant, at the end of rehearsal on Wednesday of the first week of Kurt's time in New York City, Jesse St. James garners me with compliments and a paid taxi ride before he even talks about us.<p>

"We'd make a great team, you and I. You and your Barbra Streisand charm and me with my, well, frankly, everything else. Give me your proverbial gifts, and I'll give you mine. Along with some romance. Epic romance," he proposes.

"Oh?" is all I can manage. Did he say _proverbial gifts?_ I'll just ignore that for now …

"So, I take it you agree? You'll be my date to the banquet this weekend. Its name is something clever and easy to remember, but I can't think what it is … Anyway. It pertains dinner and rubbing elbows with some of New York's greatest."

"Your date?" I say.

Honestly. It's as if I've lost half my brain, the way I am speaking to this man!

"I'm thinking a peach open-back dress down to a rather naughty length. Dramatic, but not garish."

"Oh, I couldn't allow you to buy me a dress!"

"I wasn't planning on it. Don't worry," he says with a wink. "But, seriously. Do you have a dress like that?"

"Rubbing elbows with Broadway greats?"

"And millionaires who could be patrons," he reassures.

I thought about what Santana said that morning—how flirting with other men might dull the ache. After all, Finn is lost to me. Could Santana truly have been predicting …?

I thought about Kurt. How excited he would be. How much he used to love making me over—and no doubt still does. How our gushing over the glamour of that night would be fodder for giddy "girlfriend talk" for weeks.

"So, what do you say? Be my plus one?" he prods.

I smile my assent.

Just a little fun with him. _Gosh_, the connections in this city he already has! I could learn a lot from him and his incredible self-absorption that even blows _mine_ out of the water. Looking out for himself and his own, that's how he got where he is.

That's the way to succeed, isn't it?

* * *

><p><em>AN: _And I'm back! I told you I wasn't giving up! It's a little hard to explain. It's not that I've been too busy; I've just been too stressed out. All my spare time has been spent mindlessly surfing the internet to escape how stressed out I was feeling. But I have made a vow to, from now on, conquer that anxiety and make time for the things I love-such as writing!

So I hope you enjoyed my "triumphant return." XP It's part I because I was planning on more happening in this chapter, but it would have been twice as long as all my other chapters, so "Fools and Kings" has been chopped into two chapters. So, now, the plan is for "Nature Boy" to entail _eight_ instead of seven chapters-and an epilogue.

Thank you for your support and patience! Seriously.

Thank you.

Thank you so much.


	7. Fools and kings part II

___Chapter Seven: Fools and Kings, Part II_

I email Mom for the first time since I obtained the lead role. It is a quiet Saturday evening in the library, and I languish in my state of canceled plans with Santana. I had been waiting for Mother to email me back since I last wrote her. Though it is technically her turn now, I don't care.

I tell her everything that is on my mind: Santana, Kurt, Quinn, and Finn. Though I pine over a man she discouraged me from, I am careful to make it clear I don't blame her for talking me out of a future with Finn. I know she was only looking out for me.

After I press send, I am kicked out of the library by the same cross mustachioed librarian (I am beginning to think I should know his name since we keep having "moments.")

As I am getting ready for bed that night, my phone startles me as it begins to ring. I pick it off of the little fuzzy pink chair phone-stand and realize my mother is calling me! I pace for a few moments, realizing we haven't had an actual phone conversation in quite a while and what will I do when the inevitable awkward/disapproving silence falls upon us?

But I puff up my chest, hold my head high, and I answer the phone.

"Hi, sweetie," is the first thing she says. I swallow. It's been a while since she called me that, citing that I was a grown woman now, and she would respect that with no more pet names. I had agreed, deciding that those names just condescend, and it was great that my mother respected me so much.

(I didn't _really_ agree.)

She told me that she was sorry I was being haunted by past mistakes and that she felt haunted, too. She said that she shouldn't have pushed me to push Finn away. "You're a smart girl, and he's obviously more competent than most in Lima gave him credit for. You both could have figured it out. You can figure anything out. You're my brave little girl."

I'm in tears. I haven't sent such an honest email in years because I feared the response. I feared accusations of weakness. She receives my earnestness so much better than I thought.

I tell her this. "I don't give you enough credit," I finish.

"No, I know I can be very … single-minded about you. It's just because I believe in you. I _want_ you to succeed so badly. Your fathers raised you to be so much stronger than I could ever be, so when they put emphasis on your career, I agreed with them. I knew you could do it while most other eighteen year old girls were still too fragile and too lost. You had—_have_-direction. But a girl has to tend to her heart as well as her career, doesn't she? That's the hardest thing about being an adult. There are so many important things to balance! I always forget that. For most of the time, you had that a bit with Santana, at least, but now she's fallen in love, and it's hard for you. Being alone again. And with Finn showing himself to be your equal in every way that matters. Brave and good and strong."

I sniffle a "yes," and I sit, cross-legged, on top of my bed.

"If he really is your equal, then he will find a way back to you. And, from your reports, it sounds like he wants to. I'm not saying to cling to false hopes. Just let whatever will be _be_. Maybe he will be your friend. I'm sure he'd be a very loyal and true friend. I know your feelings are more of the romantic kind, but maybe you shouldn't cancel him out fully. Like I said, you're a strong young woman"

"Thank you," I whisper.

My heart still aches, but I do feel better as the woman I have been _killing_ myself for the praise of praises me in a new way. Somehow, being called "brave" feels better than even being "talented." The source of talent can be questioned. The title of brave is earned.

To know that she thinks I'm good for more than one thing. It somehow makes me feel less alone. Like, I feel more validated to be with Kurt. Less likely to worry that we were only friends in Lima because there was no one else with our ambitions. But now I'm worth more than just an ambitious and talented girl.

_Validated_. That's how I feel.

And _better_.

* * *

><p>Kurt and I are on our fifth outing in the three weeks since he moved to New York when I tell him about Jesse. Kurt's eyebrows waggle as I include details of the veteran actor's flattery toward me and his fantastic head of hair. But then his expression looks like he is momentarily strangled when I tell him his full name.<p>

"He came from Los Angeles, you say?" he asks.

I tell him, yes, he'd been working a successful production there.

"I might—" he starts, but then he stuffs a bit of apple and chicken salad into his mouth.

I try to prod him for details, but he remains cryptic, dismissing my prying questions with, "I _might_ know him, but I'm not sure, and I don't want to give you false information."

"Should I—should I know something before I go to that banquet tonight?" I ask.

"Well, let's just say don't get eloped or too attached," he says, delicately. "It's rude to use my phone in front of you, so I'll just do some Facebook-stalking tonight and let you know tomorrow. Besides, I have the perfect plan for making you over tonight, and I will _not_ let this look I've painstakingly planned go to waste. This is also a career opportunity for you, let us not forget!"

I giggle a little, his enthusiasm for my success contagious.

"And your show. You have to tell me when tickets go on sale. I'll get the brother's butt back over here for that, if you don't mind. I don't really want to go alone. I know it's … touchy for you."

My jaw tightens a little at the mention—which it shouldn't because Finn is this man's brother. But Kurt has taken great pains not to mention Finn to me—which I appreciate—after he asked me about it. I told him it was complicated, and Kurt never used the name again. He actually started to refer to Finn as "the brother" to avoid using the name—which actually makes me giggle. As in, "Every Christmas, the brother and I make a gift scavenger hunt for our little cousins." (I nearly cried from the tenderness of that image.)

There are a few instances in which I want to ask him to tell me everything. But then I realize that he'll want me to spill, as well, and I am unsure if I am ready yet. We have barely spoken for almost two years, and before that we were just casual pen pals. He told me what he was doing, and I told him what I was doing. We hardly reminisced or talked about family. Our kindred spirits of self-absorption were good for our situation of being close and one of us having broken the heart of the other's brother.

I think he knows I miss Finn. I think he detects I regret it, sometimes. But he also understands why I did it

And until we get closer again, that will have to be good enough. For now, his company is a blessing. I look forward to many years of being very best friends with him—like I used to dream about in high school.

I broke down once and ask him if he's met Quinn. He says, "No, but I know about her. I heard her sing, and I'm glad you replaced her. And don't even get me _started_ with this additional mess she's gotten herself in," and then he turns his nose up a little and shakes his head.

Not very good things? Obviously, Finn is staying with Quinn just to be honorable.

I want to find that reassuring, but I can't. The thought of Finn being caught in a miserable marriage and pining over me, somehow, cannot ease the pain.

And there I go again, thinking Finn actually still has feelings for me. After all these years.

I then have to ask. I decide to risk it because we are estranged enough that he will probably spare me the details and just give me the basics.

"Would you say … Finn is happy?"

He considers this question very seriously before he answers: "I think he's _better_. He certainly has better habits than he used to. He's very clean now, for starters. Polished white bathroom, a made bed! It's almost scary when you think about how he was in high school. I think he'll be fine."

I slowly nod. I suppose Quinn's unexpected pregnancy would be rough on him, but I imagine Kurt does not know that I know and does not want to narrate the details of Finn's life to me. Though I used to take offense, I eventually realized that he is just aloof.

"Okay! I'm done with this salad! Let's get our derrieres into that little apartment of yours to make you look fabulous!"

And we insanely race one another to my apartment from the café down the street as I laugh the hardest I've laughed in months.

* * *

><p>At the banquet that night, he first thing at the banquet that strikes me is seeing the many card-sized ad-laden drink menus strewn on each table. Then the <em>obscene<em> drink prices. Also, the delicious-smelling puffy cinnamon-flavored pretzel sticks

However, I don't touch them, fearing a twenty dollar bill would pop up immediately after taking a handful.

Jesse thinks I am abstaining for other reasons …

"Don't want to grow out of that dress," Jesse says approvingly as I feel like smiling and rolling my eyes at the same time. While it is important to stay trim ….

Instead, I try to nod back, but my muscles refuse to comply. Most of my attempts to react in the positive to Jesse St. James have had a similar premature demise. This man's company is turning out to be not quite what I bargained for. He's _conceited_. I'm conceited, but he's _conceited. _In italics.

His comments on my body, while flattering initially, are wearing my nerves thin, and I am sometimes tempted to just leave—run away. But then he remarks on my talent or reminds me of his immense knowledge of show business only rivaled by my own, and I firmly plant my feet.

What did Kurt have to say to me about this man?

Instead of depending on our duo dynamic, I decide to employ my knowledge from the protocol workshop I attended at that actors' agency. A quick mental review, and I will traipse over to that group in the corner where a man has what appears to be a smoking jacket on. Interesting …

Now, the protocol. What do I remember? I remember we aren't supposed to hold our drink in our predominant hand.

Whoops. I can't shake professional hands with my clammy, condensation-soaked one! I switch my drink from my right to my left hand.

What else?

Well, don't make a pig of yourself, but that's rather common knowledge.

That man in the smoking jacket sure is going to town with his plate of cheese cubes … Perhaps, I'll rub elbows with someone else.

Staying away from too much alcohol is another thing I remember them going over in the workshop.

_Again. Common sense_, I think to myself as Jesse tells me he's going to order a Long Island Iced Tea.

I think back on my knowledge of light wines. Rachel Barbra Berry will _not _be sloppy. Even if those around her are allowing themselves to be.

I am here to network and to launch my sure-to-be dazzling career into its long latent existence.

"_Why do you have a book on wine?" Finn asked, looking adorable in his Looney Toons boxers and white, sleeveless undershirt, crouched at my bookshelf._

"_Because it's the favorite alcoholic beverage of nearly all my idols. It is the drink of high society events. It's a way to be cultured," I answered from my bed, where I was watching him smilingly as he explored my room. _

"_It's not even legal for you yet," he said, returning to bed to sweep a hair from off my brow and stare, and stare._

"_No, but one can never be too prepared. The wine is a common conversation piece, and I want to know the right things to say."_

_And then he chuckled in a deep, affectionate way that never failed to turn me into goo._

"_You're something else," he told me, his thumb grazing my jaw line._

"It's a cash bar, and I only have credit. Could you pay for the drinks?" Jesse asks, promptly pulling me out of my memory. "I'll pay you back later."

"If you do," he adds, clearly seeing my waning patience, "I could introduce you to Chelsea Cleary. She's the Tony-winning director of—"

"I _know_ what she's the director of," I say with a weird combination of irritation and unadulterated _glee_ at having the opportunity to be introduced to one of the directors I hope to one day work with. I slowly transfer all the cash I brought to Jesse.

* * *

><p>After the amazing encounter with Chelsea Cleary, I am in a fantastic mood. Jesse says something about wine at his place so that he can pay me back for the alcohol I paid for him. I blithely agree, still in my ambition high, calculating how soon is too soon to call her, using the number on the card she gave me. (Yes, our fingers <em>grazed<em> one another! Even in my perpetual pseudo-sad state, I was able to appreciate the sheer gloriousness of that occurrence.)

Before I know it, we are in his apartment, and he gives me the choice of three different kinds of wines. I gape when I realize all the wines are aged almost fifteen years. I choose Pinot Noir, and I settle into his living room.

As I sit on the orange couch on his dark wood floor, I am rendered speechless by the view of the city he has through the large window. How much money does this man _have?_

Jesse re-emerges from his kitchen with a generous serving of wine for me. Then, as I expect him to sit with me, he sits at the baby grand piano he has in the corner of his living room!

He asks if I want to duet, and I accept and join him at the bench. We duet on Elton's "Tiny Dancer," taking turns on harmony and melody perfectly. It's as if we have the same musical brain!

Or maybe that's the wine talking.

Then I retire on the couch again, and he plucks an unfamiliar melody as he says, "You truly are stunning, Rachel."

"Thanks. My friend Kurt is a sartorial wizard," I say, slightly swaying.

Perhaps I should put the drink down.

"No. I think it's you. Without any of those clothes, you'd still take my breath away," and then he begins playing "Sarah Brown Eyes" from the Tony award-winning musical_ Ragtime_ and hums the notes as he looks at me with glittering eyes. The lush Ragtime tune and his dark eyes on me make me almost light-headed. My breathing picks up.

Suddenly, he's no longer at the piano, and he's seated on the couch next to me.

"Oh, hello," I say, startled.

He does this devastatingly charming flick of his eyes downward and straight back upward—landing at my lips. Then he laughs as he greets me back and leans in to kiss me. I start as his clammy hand plants itself on the small of my back.

"_Your hands are always so warm. And they're big, too. Wrapped around me like a perfect blanket! Will you be my blanket, Finn Hudson?" I hear my eighteen-year-old self chuckle._

_Spooning with me from behind, he squeezed me as he agreed to what I proposed. His breath skated over my neck, and I began to feel light-headed as he kissed my jawline. I felt his grip on me loosen as I turned to face him and let my hands clumsily wander. I remember our hands crashed a few times as we fervently tried to get closer and to touch every possible surface on each of our bodies._

Jesse kisses me very deeply. Unlike Finn was, Jesse is forceful in a … I suppose, a kinky kind of way—and I can't help but respond with a few tinglies Down There. His arms envelop me, and I put one of my arms around his neck. We're a steamy, hot tangle. It's quite erotic.

His thumb strokes at my back then journeys to my dress strap, teasing it off my shoulder very, very slowly. I wait for the wash of giddiness. Instead I feel my chest get wet as he kisses at the cleavage peeking out from my dress. I giggle a little at the sudden change of tone when he flat-out starts groping my right breast.

_Before even touching any of my other _sensitive_ body parts, Finn used to kiss my face all over—even my eyelashes—slowly building up the tension until my nerves were all buzzing, and I could hear my heart beat throbbing in my eardrums. My favorite was when he would kiss and suck at my earlobe—_

"Oh, God," I find myself moaning at the memory as Jesse is down below … somewhere.

I hear him chuckle, and I realize he is crediting the arousal to himself—which he may be at least partially correct. I bite my lip, hesitating. Jesse's hand is brushing up my dress, traveling up my legs.

I realize I'm not enjoying this, and I have to leave, so I pop up and off of the couch, sending Jesse tumbling down, hitting the back of his head against the coffee table. He cries out in pain, and I clutch both hands to my stomach as I try to channel my nervous energy.

"This is wrong! I'm sorry, but this is wrong! When my make-outs are interspersed with flashbacks of being intimate with someone else, something is very, very wrong!

I say this as I pace his living room.

By my fourth time pacing the same path, I find myself almost trotting to the other side of the couch when I realize Jesse is now standing by the couch and reaching out to me.

He is laughing! He thinks my flashback comment is _funny_!

"You might be more of a drama queen than I," he remarks, reaching out to me in a patronizing way that makes me want to slap him.

"Thanks for the wine and introducing me to so many wonderful people—but I have to go," I say, and I turn around and clomp in my high heels to the door.

When I open his door, I flip my head around to stare at him one last time. His amusement is gone, and his brow is beginning to furrow. Good. He knows I'm serious.

Then, whipping my hair back around—and zipping my dress up as far as I can (I don't even _remember_ that happening!)—I march out of there with a slam of the door.

I take out my cell phone and dial Kurt's number, using my nail to enter the 3 because the button itself fell off. I get his voice mail, and I tell him to call me as soon as he can, and then I smack the phone shut.

And hear another button fall to the ground. To that expensive, arrogant dark mahogany floor.

* * *

><p>"Are you ready?" Kurt says slowly, putting my hand in his, lightly. It is the day after that wonderful banquet and the weird dramatic flashback montage episode. Kurt responded pretty promptly by waking me up with his 6 a. m. phone call. He agreed to come over and tell me what he learned in an hour. I had been pouring myself some cereal for breakfast, and just as I was sitting down to my bowl, I heard Kurt's ferocious knocking. Then he parked himself in a chair he situated close to me, took my hand, and now here we are. He seems a little nervous—or possibly excited. He always did love a good gossip session and knowing more than I did.<p>

I might enjoy his enjoying this, too. If I didn't have a headache. I hate that I'm such a lightweight. I was barely tipsy last night, and now I have a hang over!

"Are you?" he prods.

I wrinkle my brow in concern, but I nod. Such an intense build-up! Who is this man?

"Your Jesse St. James has quite the reputation back in California. When I lived there, the whole swath of creative peoples in the Los Angeles area knew of his notorious reputation. I had to do a little research after you told me his name, because I wanted to make sure I was talking about the right man—and after you confirmed the photo—well, I have no other alternative but to think this is the same man. This man, wooing you right now. With such a past."

"What was his past?" I press on, impatiently.

"This man was a successful actor in the best theatre company in L.A., as you know. He was the lead and co-producer of their spring show last year—I forgot the name! Terrible! I know!—_anyway_, turns out he embezzled the show a lot of money. He was supposed to be in charge of financing for the show, and he somehow made it seem like the show was being paid for, but he had wired the money to himself! That's why he's here and no longer acting! He's in hiding."

"That's awful!" I say, thinking of his ritzy apartment.

"And that's not all! He was engaged to the theatre owner's daughter and took some of her money, too. He's about as terrible as you can get, and I'll bet you're glad you walked out with all your clothes still on."

I am stunned. I sit in silent shame, realizing that I was fooled by him for quite a while. Certainly, I thought he was arrogant—but so am I. I thought we could be a team. I thought he might be a good match for me, because we understood one another.

I'm such a fool, getting drunk in questionable company.

"Don't look so dismal! You got out of that mess, and you're fine. Everyone gets fooled by a little charm sometimes."

I smile, then, because, at least I have a friend with me.

"Look. Why don't you come to my place, and we'll have a _real_ breakfast? I make a mean French toast, I'm told."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks, again, to Marcela for being a wonderful beta! She was the one who brought up Shelby resolution when I seemed to have neglected it! It resulted in that first scene you read, of course, and that is based a little on a conversation I had with my mother over break.

I feel awful that this story has taken so long, but I had a few emotional breakdowns last month that made it hard for me to produce anything. And it's taken about a month after getting rid of the medication causing the problem for me to really feel like myself again. Maybe that's TMI, but I feel I owe it to you guys for being _wonderously_ patient with me.

Chapter eight has already been sent to Marcela, and the epilogue's first draft is done, so this story should be wrapped up before the hiatus ends!


	8. The greatest thing

_Chapter eight: The greatest thing_

Kurt's apartment is surprisingly nice. It does not look like he just moved on a few weeks ago. It is actually plainer than I imagined his apartment to look like. There's an empty box for one of the newest gaming systems leaning against the wall next to the front closet.

And when Kurt puts my coat in the closet, I notice the closet is stuffed with coats—a few very long coats. One coat actually looks like it's from the … military.

Kurt ushers me into the kitchen too quickly for me to really see, but it's not like it matters. How should I know what a military coat looks like?

Kurt begins rummaging through the cupboards, and I laughingly comment on how much macaroni and cheese boxes there are.

"Oh, well, this _is_ his kitchen, no matter how much I try to take it over so that it is stocked with all healthful and interesting foods. He may be in his twenties, but he still eats like a boy. No, scratch that. Like a man. So many men eat so boringly. He will eat anything, but he often eats the same old boring stuff just because it's his habit. I'm glad he's not so bad as most men who won't eat something they can't pronounce, but—"

"Wait, wait, wait. K-Kurt, _who?_"

"This is Finn's apartment. I'm living with him until I find a place of my own," Kurt says plainly, then stops, realizing this is news to me.

"Crap. I shouldn't have brought you here. Is this too much?"

"The purple couch!" I almost shout, surely making Kurt worry for my sanity. I dash to the living room, and there it is! "It's not Quinn's?"

Kurt jogs after me, starts when I loudly ask him about the couch then shakes his head.

"Good lord, no! That's mine. What makes you think Quinn would live here when Puck can just as easily—if not more luxuriously—accommodate Quinn?"

"Puck?"

"The baby daddy?" Kurt says with a sassy roll of his head. God, he hasn't changed.

"Oh, my God! It's true! What I was hoping for—it's true! Finn isn't the father!"

"As far as I understand it, Finn never even slept with her. They went on less than a handful of dates, and she flirted with him."

Oh, God. This was too much. Too much wonderful for one girl. I flop onto the couch and try to make myself sit still. Before long, I find my ankle bouncing, and Kurt is still standing at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

"You didn't know any of this?"

"Worse. I had heard Finn and Quinn were engaged—that Quinn had moved in when it was _you_ who moved in. I heard that Finn was abroad, traveling to show Quinn to his family. I thought—" and suddenly my face blanches, and my tight face squeezes out two small tears, and then I'm gushing a few more tears.

Then I stop crying, but my face is still squishing together as I wonder what to do with all this emotion.

"That book. He wanted to get closer to me, but he was afraid. And I was afraid. And we were both so proud. _How can I be so stupid?_"

Kurt is now sitting next to me on the couch. "Relax. He'll be back. I'm pretty sure he hasn't given up on you."

"He went through a lot of pain. He threw away his childhood! He's struggling to move on. And I … I just watch him from afar like a coward. Maybe he doesn't have any feelings for me."

"Look," he exclaims, beginning to pat my back. "He'll be back, and now that you know, you can set things right. It was quite the feat to get him to come back—nothing short of your biggest stage premiere yet would draw him. That's a good sign. Okay, even that isn't confirmed. He said he'd 'try,' whatever the hell that means. But, knowing him, watching him over the years, I'm certain he still has feelings for you."

After a good cry, Kurt sends me off with a stomach full of French toast and instructions to call Will about Jesse, saying he would call me in a few days. He looks particularly mysterious as he says the "few days" portion—as if he is thinking of something important that will happen in a few days. I decide to ignore it and just find out in those few days' wait. Besides, I would be amply busy with rehearsal from dawn 'till dusk until our premiere the following weekend.

When I get home, I debate whether or not to report Jesse. The more publicly humiliating, the less of a chance Jesse has of coming back onto my turf. However, this news would steal my thunder, and the show would be known for having a co-director who is a crook instead of the launching pad of one of Broadway's most beloved starlets.

No. I can't let him take my spotlight. I can see him almost enjoying it. I remember when Quinn told me, "A bad reputation is better than no reputation at all." Anything is better than being invisible in this business.

I pick up the phone to call Will.

* * *

><p>Jesse isn't at rehearsal when I come in on Monday morning. Everyone asks where he is when we go over notes at the end of rehearsal. It's the beginning of tech week, and anything unexpected makes the whole cast uneasy.<p>

Will reassures them everything is under control, and Jesse had "left" the production. He didn't state any further. He eyes me after he makes the statement—no doubt reminded of how I asked him not to make Jesse's status as a crook public for fear of stealing my thunder. Translating it to "stealing the show's thunder," he accepted. I give him an encouraging smile, and he grins back and says something that makes the whole cast whoop and spring from their seats.

As the week goes on, it becomes apparent that Jesse is not well-missed.

"You must be missing him. You were his favorite," Alyssa, one of the newest chorus girls, says to me once.

"W-well, certainly, he was flattering, but there is no room for favoritism in show business," I spew at her, taken aback by her boldness—or by the fact that she was even talking to me. She was nineteen, cocky, and dripping with sarcasm, and that was all I cared to know about her.

"Sure," she says, rolling her eyes.

Except for _that_ little incident, rehearsals run rather smoothly the whole week. The stage gets a little too dirty by Wednesday because the clean-up crew has no idea we are rehearsing from five a.m. to almost nine p.m. Mercedes almost steps on a stray pin. We all become immune to the scent of sweat. We are eventually too tired to talk, and then we say good night and wander off stage in a daze.

On Thursday night, when I get off the subway train, my phone vibrates, and I see that I received a voice message while I was in the train. Some people with fancier phones manage conversations in the tunnels, but my cell phone signal says, "Farewell!" once I've inserted my card and gotten past the bars.

Exhausted, I trump up the stairs and listen to the lady tell me I have one. new. message. from.

Kurt's number!

"Hello, little Diva. Kurt here to tell you Finn and I are a-go for your glamorous premiere this weekend!"

Funny because I'm not feeling glamourous. I fiddle with my keys to retrieve the correct one to get into my apartment. So. Tired.

"Say hello, Finn!"

I hear his chuckle. So familiar. It's in the background, and he says something to Kurt, calling his brother "dude." As if Kurt is teasing Finn about something.

How I missed his laugh.

Then I hear it. It's breathy and low. It's gentle and warm. It's spoken _so close_ to the phone that it makes the nape of my neck tingle.

"Hi, Rachel."

I drop my keys.

* * *

><p>I stand in my dressing room, looking at myself in the mirror. I don't look that different. I look a little wan from little sleep for the past week, certainly, but other than that, I don't look like the Glamour Rachel I always imagined.<p>

Maybe I need to sit on a baby grand piano and sing "Fever."

I start to sing the song to myself, which, for some reason, I don't begin with the first verse. (I wanted to tell you so you don't think I am not well-versed in the classic American song book, because I certainly am!):

_Sun lights up the day time,_

_Moon lights up the night._

_I light up when you call my name._

_And you know I'm gonna treat you right._

Then my phone vibrates, and it's a text from Santana:

"Ready or not, here I come!"

My eyes pop; I haven't seen Santana in almost two weeks! To be frank, I thought she had forgotten about me.

She comes quite soon. She must have texted it just a few blocks from the theatre. She is holding a long little square present in both of her hands, proffering it to me with a smirk.

Looking from her to the box, I take it, smiling, intrigued.

She, of course, proudly announces before I have the gift opened. She's so giddy! A rarity with my sarcastic best friend.

"I bought you a toothbrush, and I covered it with golden star rhinestones. I asked Brittany how we could prevent her from accidentally using your toothbrushes, and we came up with this. I had no idea how hard it would be to find gold star rhinestones!"

Her prattling disintegrates into laughter when I squeeze her into an embrace.

"And I just wanna say that I'm sorry for ditching you for Brittany for a while. It's just. I've never felt this way before."

I push a stray hair from her forehead.

"I'm glad. It's a great thing," I agree.

"So is this," she says as she takes my hand. And she's right. Our friendship has been through a lot, and it is just as special as true love. And I even have Kurt's amazing friendship, now.

Overall, I feel very lucky. But soon Kurt will find someone, too, and I'll have to go through this again …

We don't say much else. We don't need to. Then she leaves and tells me good luck, and just as Will swoops into my room for a quick reminder that I have ten minutes, I see that I have a text message from Kurt, wishing me to break a leg.

I try not to waste the next ten minutes wondering if Finn requested that specifically or not.

All in due time.

* * *

><p>The show runs beautifully. I get a standing ovation—and so does Finn! From backstage, I hear Will welcome the audience and ask the show's producers and inspiration to stand from the audience to receive their well-deserved applause. And, of course, Finn's name is among the group Will introduces. For Finn, the applause is very loud. People clap faster for him than the others, I notice. I smile into my vanity mirror as I smooth my lipstick.<p>

It is then I am extremely relieved the house lights don't go up until after the show. It's best to be distracted by a look that I would spend the whole show wondering what it expressed.

But grand old theatre traditions and mores being what they are, I was not distracted, and I was on the ball the whole night. I cried real tears when my character reached the peak of her emotion in her last solo onstage. I spun in my charred dress and fell in my emotional distress.

Just as Will and I had striven my performance to be. For I knew of longing, and I had harnessed it to my advantage. I felt the electricity soar from my toes and out of my mouth. And I let myself be damned by the barbaric nature of human empathy and desire.

In short, I lost myself. In high school, that was what I loved so much about it. I could quit my Rachel Berry disguise and be _everyone_. Every human emotion there ever was. They could see what they were feeling in me—and not a slushie target.

This time, I did it for Finn—and it was as if something clicked in my performance. When it was about me, it was good, and it was escape. But when it is for Finn, like now, it's like fire. That fire Finn described to me all those years ago.

Finn saved me from my selfishness once before, and it appears he is doing it again.

I have to talk with him.

* * *

><p>However, Will pulls me aside, telling me there is an interviewer who wants to speak with me outside of the dressing room.<p>

I search, and I don't see Finn. Internally praying he won't skip town tomorrow so that I can suck up the courage to ask Kurt for his number and call him, I walk to my dressing room backstage. My hands get a little shaky, and I find myself forgetting to blink.

An interview!

I invite the journalist—for some Broadway magazine I know very little about, but it's a start, nonetheless—in to sit in my dressing room where I also sit. He asks me my favorite questions: relating to the topic of myself.

At first, I am cheerily providing him the details. But then he begins to ask questions about the production and Finn and Puck, and I find it hard to be engaged.

Especially when I see Finn just outside of my dressing room! I can't stop staring at him as he adorably shove his hands into his pockets, then rests one hand on his arm and rubs with his thumb. His tongue even swipes his bottom lip a few times.

I am fascinated.

But then the interviewer asks about the book this production is based on. Have I read it?

I answer, yes. In fact, I am currently on my third reading. It is becoming one of my favorite books of all time.

"It was a gift from someone very special," I finish, hoping Finn can hear.

I turn back to Finn in the hallway, and his eyes are wide and a bit glazed. Suddenly, I find myself tearing up.

"Very powerful. Thank you," the reporter finishes up.

The reporter leaves, and Finn walks in, both hands still in his pockets. I swallow as I stand up and look up at him.

"He interviewed me, then said he had to interview you, so I followed him," he informs me, trying to shrug, but it ends up looking like a combination of a shiver and a nervous tick. "Have you really read the book I left you?"

I nod. Of course, it was from him. Only he would give me such a wonderful gift.

"And you and Jesse?"

"We're nothing. I-I mean, we went on one date, but it terminated rather early. And, to be frank, he was a bit too arrogant—even for me."

He chuckles lightly, taking another step closer.

"And Quinn's—"

"She's got Puck. When she got pregnant, she told me right away that it was Puck's. We weren't really anything, either. I mean, I like her, but… She's not you."

I suck in my breath sharply. I don't know what to say. Suddenly, I hear Kurt clear his throat in the doorway. We both jump.

"I appear to be too _busy _to drive home with you, so …." Kurt says once he's disappeared down the hallway.

"Right! Uh. Yeah, hey. Can I take you for a drink? I drove Kurt, but he has a ride with something—someone else, and right now he's … _busy_."

"Soooo busy!" Kurt cries from down the hallway.

I giggle as I slap the palm of my face to my forehead. I really owe him.

Finn is grinning at me, now, beautiful as ever.

_We _really owe him.

* * *

><p>It turns out that Finn does not have a specific place in mind, and we end up driving around for over two hours. We lose track of time because we are so busy talking and singing along to songs and bringing up memories associated with the songs—sometimes, Glee club memories, sometimes individual memories.<p>

Then when we find a bar of interest to us—once we are actually paying attention—but we can't find a parking spot for several blocks out. It's a beautiful crisp, fall evening, though, and we both agree that we don't mind walking.

When he begins to park, suddenly looking very nervous at the parallel parking job (what use for learning parallel parking was there in Lima?) and having an audience. I try not to stare and just listen to the music. At one point, a very special song for us begins to play.

_Two strangers learn to fall in love again,_

_And I get the joy of re-discovering you._

As "Faithfully" builds, I can't help but place my hand on his hand which is placed firmly on the gear stick. He takes that hand, puts it up to his face and kisses it, and I'm tearing up again. With no intent of letting my hand go, he confidently swings the wheel and manages to finish his once-daunting parking task single-handedly.

All the while, I enjoy the warmth of his touch and that mole on his wrist I had almost forgotten about. How could I have forgotten a single detail of this man? Years ago, I had told myself to commit it all to memory. Somehow, I thought memorizing every freckle would make the pain of good bye bearable.

After a few quiet moments after he turns the car off, we get out of the car and begin walking. He reaches out for my hand, and I take it, fighting the urge to swing our hands like I did when I was a teenager.

We talk more. He begins to tell me about his time in the army. He says he was in Mongolia for a while, and the coat the army gave him for that assignment is the only thing he's kept. I nod, remembering that must have been what I see, and Finn is right; "It looks pretty cool."

He was in Indonesia, too, when the terrorist attacks got ugly. He saw children die. He saw friends die. He saw his own fellow soldiers beat villagers who were peacefully holding up signs.

We are walking at a mournful, slow pace as he begins to impart these dark memories with me. I squeeze his hand, helplessly, unable to think of any other way to comfort him.

When I ask him about PTSD, he turns away quickly and says that maybe later he'd go into that.

"I can't … Not now," he says heavily.

As I turn my head away, ashamed at prodding him, spitting out some embarrassed apology, Finn reaches out to turn my head back. He puts his hand under my chin and holds my face up to his.

"Hey. Don't apologize. I wanna be able to tell you everything someday. I swear. But until then, can I … can I keep you, this time? Will you stay?"

His face is so close that my face tingles in response to his hot breath.

I nod fervently, letting the tear that was threatening all night to finally fall.

And then he kisses me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And so concludes my Austenian tale of longing and staring and staring and longing! I really got emotional writing this last chapter, so I hope you guys enjoyed it just as much!

Marcela! You are amazing! Thank you!

Keep your eyes peeled for a little epilogue soon. It's actually what I first wrote. The first scene was so vivid in my mind, I _had_ to write! ;)


	9. Epilogue

**A/N**: Here it is! It was originally the segment of Pezberry in the restaurant through 'till the end, but I remembered how many of you wanted more of Finn. So I broke the Austenian rule and unveiled the romantic hero's mystique to give you a better look at our hero. Oh, and, there's also a baby!

Enjoy!

**Epilogue**

By the third time Finn and I got together after that evening, we virtually picked up exactly where we left off. Yes, I mean _in that way_.

Puck and Quinn moved to a suburb of New York, by Quinn's demand. Finn and I tried to stay in touch with them. I lasted a year, Finn a little longer. I am not quite certain what they're doing or if they're still around. All I know is that Quinn doesn't appear to have any intention of returning to the stage.

I, on the other hand, am having a thriving career which launched after the show that brought Finn and I together came to its premature termination. The critics did not like the show. They felt it was "jumbled," as the man from the New York Times said. Unfortunate. But it _did_ allow me to overshadow the production. I got noticed and received accolades in reviews. I even got an offer for a part.

Which I took, and that was the role I played—quite happily—for two years until the show landed on Broadway. It was a musical adaptation of "Once," and I was the Russian pianist. By the time we were on Broadway, I could actually play the piano—thanks to Kurt's tenacious instruction.

I'll never forget the night the show opened on Broadway because it was the first night, since we'd reunited, I had seen Finn cry out of happiness.

My career, from then on, flourished. And so did Finn's. Shortly after we started dating, he began to frequent Washington, D.C, working with a lobbyist firm which fought for more funding for causes that helped war veterans. As a huge bill became closer and closer to becoming a reality, Finn was asked to head a temporary branch near LaFayette Square, a short walk from the White House, and he accepted.

I missed him terribly because we were hardly ever able to visit. Our schedules clashed all the time. The best time for me to visit was during the work week when I didn't have shows, but the best time for him was when I had shows to perform. When he came back home for good, after almost six months, I clamped my legs around him, and my body didn't detach itself from his for the rest of the night.

Then, when Finn and I were newly-weds, I got an offer to work on the West End in a revival of Les Miserables. It was a dream, come true.

At around the same time I was working out my future plans in London, I had a pregnancy scare. Finn found me pacing in the bathroom with the unopened box of pregnancy tests, and he began beaming.

"I haven't tested yet. It's just—my period's late. With luck, this'll just be a scare."

"With luck? You don't …. You don't want a baby?" Finn's smile faltered.

"It's the _West End_, Finn. This is important!"

His face fell at my last statement, and I was too lost in my angst to really notice that I had told him my career was more important than a baby we might conceive.

"Right," he said, and then he was terse the rest of the evening through my joyously announcing I wasn't pregnant, through dinner, and throughout the long, cold night in bed.

My mind was reeling. I was still so young. Show business requires I cling to my youth. Why didn't he understand?

Finn got over it, though. Until I went to London, things continued as normal. And normal wasn't really normal. We were both so busy that, if we didn't take initiative, we'd hardly see one another.

When I came back from London, I felt like he was distant. I actually woke him up when I found myself blubbering in bed right next to him, needing his gentle gaze. He responded readily and quickly. He always woke up very alert. When he saw my glazed-over eyes, his own softened, he put his hand to my face, and we talked.

He told me that he wanted us to be more of a family. No more of these months-long separations. He wanted to know he had a home. That we could always come home to one another. We decided to start by spending more time together, making time for one another.

We made a promise to meet three times each week to share lunch. In the evenings, I had rehearsal, and he had to wake up early, so we often didn't see one another at night—except, sometimes, I would wake him up for love-making. He would always comply, murmuring how much he loved me and how I saved him from a dark dream he was having.

He had a lot of bad dreams. And there was never anything I could do about it, no matter what I tried. No matter how much he would laud me as his savior, I still felt guilty that he was not all there—not always. That he never would be _always all there_.

And what's worse is that he gets so angry at me, sometimes, when I won't relent in my desperate need to mend him. _Somehow_. "I'm just broken, Rachel. That's how I am. Y can't do everything," he'd say, his face pale and his eyes dark.

We moved into a bigger apartment together not long after I returned from London to start acting like a real married woman. Before we moved in, I had a room insulated. In that room, I snuck in a new, full drum set which wouldn't have fit in our old apartment. When we moved in, he was thrilled. His eyes lit up. He instantly went to work at the drum set. We even sang together as he thrashed and banged.

Like old times.

It was as if I only became more and more in love with him as time passed. His bad dreams became less frequent, and I saw less of the pale face and dark eyes, begging me not to try and fix what couldn't be fixed, hurting over it as much as I was.

I realized it might have been because life was more routine than it used to be. I never worked farther than Broadway (honestly, who would mind that? West End was great, but New York and Broadway are the places to be), and he was waking up and going to bed at the same time I was.

I like to think the drum set helped, as well. For his birthday that year, I also bought him a guitar. Sometimes, when I couldn't help him, I knew music could. A concept he was incredibly, inspirationally passionate about in his work with veterans.

I rather like the routine we have set in. I never thought I would, but I like being "settled down"—as much as a stage actress can be, that is.

However, lately, it seems that change might be in the air again. Kurt and his husband adopted a toddler and a baby within eighteen months. Finn loves those two to death. He plays so well with them. I could watch him with children for hours.

We recently rounded our five year wedding anniversary, and Finn has been giving me hints.

When we have our lunches together, he has fallen into the habit of leaning in very closely to smile and point as he says, "Look at that little boy" or "You see that little girl over there?"

And he chuckles. He pulls his face so close to mine that I can feel his breath skate my nose. And when I look at the child, I can feel his eyes, reading my reaction. When I turn back to him, he has this _look_ in his eyes that makes me want to melt. He's even kissed me a few times when this has happened!

Who watches a strange child then kisses his wife?

A man who wants a baby! That's who!

"I think Finn wants to have a baby," I say, breaking the silence Santana and I are enjoying as we partake in our shared lunch of some large appetizer with a lot of cheese and pesto. "But, if I do, I may not be able to do that movie. If it happens soon."

Santana is still chewing, but I hear a muffled snort-laugh as she strives to finish chewing faster. No doubt. She has a clever retort ready.

"So get him a puppy. It's all good fun to think about having a cute, big-eyed, shit factory until you've actually had to take care of it."

"A baby is different, and you know it."

"Yeah, it's a lot harder and more time-consuming. Just last month, you said you were looking at a lot of great opportunities soon that you wouldn't pass up. So make him wait. You want the ultimate stardom package, right? You might have this movie deal, and you don't wanna miss that—"

"But, San, that movie deal isn't a sure role for _me."_

"Sweetie," she says, and I eye her petulantly. She knows I hate it when she uses terms of endearment to patronize. "—You _made _that role. Hell, you made the _success_ of that play! If it weren't for you, I don't think _Lately_ would have been near as successful and gotten all those Tony nominations. And what was one of those Tony noms for?"

Santana pauses. I blink. Then I realize she's really waiting for an answer.

"Best Actress. Me for Best Actress," I recite.

"And you lost to _Bernadette Fucking Peters_. I'd say that's something to gloat about. And this movie deal? Could be in the bag if you don't get knocked up."

"We don't even know, if I took the role, that the movie would begin filming soon. Lots of Broadway musicals have movie deals, but then they aren't filmed till _years_ after the production is announced. So I might not technically be giving up anything."

"So you're saying you'll have time to pop out a baby and find the eye of newt and snot of a witch to make the magical anti-stretch mark cream in time for the movie?"

"Maybe even two!"

Santana lets out a silent, warm laugh while rolling her eyes. She loves the idea of being a godmother, and we both know it.

"Not two babies! Two eyes of newt, I was talking about. For the stretch mark cream."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be hard 'cause newts have two eyes."

"Dammit, Santana. I was trying to be clever, and that's what came out. I wish I'd invited Brittany with us. You're always nicer when your wife's around."

"Oh, I'm sorry, should've thought before you spoke," Santana says in a mock-sweet tone, clicking her tongue and crossing her arms as she sinks into her seat with a smile.

"I just. I'm not giving up on my dream, if that's what you're worried about. I'm already _living_ the dream right now. Having a baby isn't settling. It's actually scarier than anything I'm looking at in my career right now. I mean, _molding _a human being! That's huge. I'm scared just talking about it!"

As I say this, I feel a wave of excitement rise in my belly. Going up against Bernadette Peters is _nothing_ compared to having a little us to raise and influence all its life. It's like creating a role for years and years—except infinitesimally more complicated.

_A little us._

"If it's what you want. Just don't you fucking dare give up and become a housewife," Santana say passionately.

"Santana, I'm actually offended you would infer that! I lost focus once before when I almost lost Finn forever, and I never stopped regretting it. I can't do that again. When, in college, I said I wanted everything too much, I meant I wanted _everything_. Fame, power, love, and … and now a baby. Granted, I promised myself no children before my first Tony, but I also promised myself no marriage before the first Tony, and look how that went! My life is more than one dimension…. I mean, right?"

Santana grins.

"But," I continue, "I have had one _hell_ of a start, if my stardom is still on the rise. I've been in three major productions—three of which have had at least a fraction televised, and this _last_ one got me a Best Actress Tony nomination. I've enjoyed a lot of exposure."

"You know, though, Rach," Santana said, her voice soft, "that, if you take a break now, it could risk you hitting the big time—I mean the _big_-big time. Shitloads of money."

"I know. Maybe I'll never make it to the movies, but I love where I am now, and I know stopping to have a baby won't change that. I'll get back to plays and the Tonys. But now... _I really want a baby, too_."

"Well, kitten, don't know why we're shooting the shit when it's clear you've made up your mind. Bill's on me. Go and make that baby."

"Technically, it may not work yet until I take the NuvaRing out, so—"

"Get out!" Santana shouts playfully, shooing me with her dirty cloth napkin.

Taking the hint, I giggle and hop out of my seat. I yell a thanks to her as I rush out of the restaurant and make a bee-line for Finn's and my apartment. Once I get into a taxi, I look at my phone, reading the last text he sent me: "Might take a nap. Wake me up when you get back from lunch. Don't wanna sleep too long and freak out the cleaners again. Or do they come on Sundays?"

I feel a sudden rush of excitement unlike I had ever felt before. We're going to have a baby! I had decided! And I got a free lunch out of the deal! The taxi couldn't arrive soon enough.

But it does arrive, and I rush inside and out of the elevator like a little girl. I jolt-stop at the door, decided I am going to surprise him. I gingerly open the door. I kick my shoes off just to the left of our bedroom doorway, and I gaze.

As suspected, my husband is sprawled across our bed, his long limbs reaching out to almost every edge of our king-sized bed. His mouth is slack, his nose pink. He's snoring a little, and his left eye twitches as sunlight beams onto a patch of his face through the slightly-ajar curtain.

Beautiful man.

I climb onto the bed and massage his bare back lightly. Then I kiss it, and I hear him mumble and groan awake.

"I might be gross. It's so damn hot out there," he warns, rolling over and tugging me on top of him.

"You're not gross. You're _sweaty_," I correct him as he attacks my neck with succulent kisses. "I am, too, and it's … only gonna get worse" I say, my eyes fluttering shut, already losing my senses at his touch.

I'm already panting. I was thinking about this the whole taxi ride, and now I'm already shaky and ready—and my mind is exploding, as if I were a teenager again.

"Finn, I wanna have a baby with you as soon as possible," I let the words come pouring out before I am too far gone.

He stops what he's doing. Sits back. Stares. Bright eyes. Yearning lips. His adorable pink nose still getting pinker.

I see his eyes glisten. Then he says simply, "I do, too."

Finn makes arrangements to work at the New York office of his non-profit half the week instead of driving out to Washington, D.C. several times each week.

Those are nine hours of driving that could be spent tending to my cravings and then watching the baby take his or her first steps, he explains to me.

I also make arrangements. I bow out of the show I am in when I'm almost three months along and take a maternity leave. Finn is good to me. So very, very good. And I am _so grateful_ he is working in New York now so that he actually is in bed when I wake up in the middle of the night to make love with him. Or for him to notice me shifting in bed and offer to massage my swollen feet.

_So very good._

The baby is beautiful, and I think I see traces of Finn's freckles on her even though I know it's impossible for her to have freckles as a newborn. Finn says she has my eyes. Santana then contributes, saying that she knew the baby girl had my lungs when she came out of the womb with her deafening cries.

The apartment is a mess, most of the time—and we haven't been out and about the city for anything but errands in weeks. But we're very happy with our little Rose. She's our world. I haven't thought about my own needs since I saw her face.

I happily gave her my spotlight the moment she was born.


End file.
